Through the Dark Clouds shining (English version)
by kslchen
Summary: "I did not become a nurse to help people. It is, simply put, the only thing I am actually any good at. Or no, that's not right, is it? It is, to be precise, the only thing I am better at than my sisters. That, then, is what set my on this path. And the path has led me right here." A different take on Rilla Blythe's war as an army nurse in war-torn Europe.
1. Prologue – The Last Post

**Through the Dark Clouds shining**

 _I have been writing this story in German for a couple of months now (and it has grown much longer than anticipated) and have been asked several times whether there's an English version available. Well – there is now. After very kind encouragement, I have finally decided to try my hand at translating this myself, though the length alone makes the task look quite daunting.  
English, as you might have gathered, is only my second language. I'd go so far as to call my English serviceable, though it is by no means perfect. I am, therefore, eternally grateful (with sprinkles an top!) to the lovely _Anne O' the Island _, who, as my linguistical negative, is investing her time and patience to proof-read this. She has promised to let me make this up to her somehow and I'll hold her to it! Meanwhile, equal thanks is extended to the wonderful_ oz diva _who has kindly agreed to be the co-beta reader of this story and to whom I am also ever so grateful for her amazing help and support._ _The quality of the story is in no small part thanks to these two lovely ladies (and blame for any surviving mistakes belongs squarely on my shoulders)._

 _Now, the premise of this story is an easy one: it has Rilla as a trained nurse, going to war with the Canadian Army Medical Corps. "Rilla as a nurse?" you might wonder. Well, yes. To me, Rilla is an interesting amalgamation of Anne and Gilbert. She has Anne's impulsiveness, her penchant for romance and above all, her stubbornness. From Gilbert she gets a practicality, an ability to knuckle down, even a certain kind of 'down-to-earthness' a teenaged Anne lacked. 'Rilla of Ingleside' is full of these episodes where Rilla's impulsiveness gets her into scrapes and her stubbornness keeps her locked in them (that green winter hat, anyone?). It also reveals her practical side though, which is far superior to anything Anne at that age has ever shown – caring for Jims and organizing the Junior Red Cross must be top on that list. So yes, I do think that Rilla would make a decent nurse, once she puts her mind to it. How she got there I will let her explain herself in the first full chapter, and how she condones herself will be a major part of this story._

 _For this story to work, I had to age everyone up by four years. Thus, Rilla was born in July of 1895 and everyone else accordingly. The events of 'Anne of Green Gables' up to 'Rainbow Valley' have taken place as described in the books, just four years earlier. As this is a complete re-write of 'Rilla of Ingleside' no events mentioned in it apply to my story.  
The story itself has its first chapter set in August 1916, making Rilla twenty-one years old at the beginning (and thus older and more mature than she is at the end of 'Rilla of Ingleside'). From the first chapter on, the story is told chronologically. The one exception is the prologue which takes place on an as yet unmentioned later date (we will get there though, I promise)._

 _Before I proceed, I should add one warning: This is a story about war or, more precisely, medical care in war. War isn't pretty and neither is medical care sometimes, so this story, while not graphic or gruesome, touches on subjects that might not be for the very faint of heart. So, while I very much hope you'll proceed to read on, please do consider yourself warned._

 _And now, without further ado, on to a different take on Rilla Blythe's experiences of the Great War._

* * *

 **Prologue – The Last Post**

Silently, I stand by as the coffin disappears into the sandy earth.

The sky is low and grey, the rain relentless. I hate the thought of him lying here, without shelter, exposed to rain and cold and snow.

At least he is not alone.

Somewhere behind me the guns thunder and growl, as they have done for years. It sounds far away, but it isn't **.** To me, it has never been closer.

A hand slides into mine, cold and clammy. It is an offer of comfort, but how can there be comfort in light of what I have lost? What all of us have lost?

With a last, dull, _cruel_ sound the coffin comes to rest. The sound of a bugle rises above the silence. _The Last Post_. Just how many times has that old melody floated over this country in the past few years alone? This last lament, for times when words have left us?

As the bugle plays the soldier's goodbye, I gaze into the distance. I can see the river from where I stand and, a little to the north, the sea. And somewhere behind it, thousands upon thousands of miles away, lies our home over the ocean.

I wonder if he knew he would never see it again.

There are so many men I've seen perish. More than I dare to remember. Once, I thought it would become easier, because surely, one death resembles another after a while. It did not – perhaps it never could. This death is different from the others, of course it is.

The soldiers shovel earth into the grave and I feel a sudden longing to stop them. A child's fear bubbles up inside me – _to be buried alive_. But that's nonsense. I know he is dead. I was with him when he died.

I came here to protect him, to protect them all. Naïve, I guess. At the end, I could do no more than hold his hand as he walked the last journey alone. Maybe it helped, holding his hand. Maybe he never even felt it at all. Whoever knows?

A whistle in the distance, then a train comes into view. An unmistakable sign that all this continues still. It is not over yet, though it may feel that way. He is not the first dead of this war, not by far, and he won't be the last, either.

The train moves off and my gaze falls onto the valley, stretching out between the river and my feet. Covering it are rows upon rows of wooden crosses. Hundreds, thousands of them, and yet just a small fraction. To think how many crosses cover the earth of this country, the earth of this world, is nigh on unbearable. A fallen man for every cross, and countless men who will never have a cross at all. Not even that.

I've forgotten what they fought for or why they died. Perhaps I never knew. One thing is certain, though: whatever the purpose and however the end may look – the price was too high.

* * *

 _The title of this story is taken from the song 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' from 1914 (lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello)._

' _The Last Post' is a military bugle call, played traditionally at soldiers' funerals and commemoration ceremonies throughout the Commonwealth._


	2. Oh, who wouldn't join the army?

_August 20th, 1916  
RMS Ascania, Atlantic Ocean_

 **Oh, who wouldn't join the army?  
**

I did not become a nurse to help people.

I did not even do it to earn money, in this society, where wage-earning women are still not the norm. Now, don't get me wrong. I like helping, and the money is jolly nice, but the real reason why I forewent college for nursing school is quite a different one. It is, simply put, the only thing I am actually any good at.

Or no, that's not right, is it? It is, to be precise, the only thing I am better at than my sisters.

Di reliably faints whenever she sees but a smidgen of blood. Nan is good with blood but does not care for other bodily fluids, to put it like that. For all their brilliance, neither could ever do nursing and I am afraid that is the main reason for why it is nursing I chose to find my destiny in.

I love my sisters. Please don't anyone ever doubt that. For many years I have tried to emulate them, to _appeal_ to them. The age-gap alone meant I was doomed from the start. Four years, after all, are an eternity to a child. With Nan being so much more beautiful and creative and Di being cleverer and funnier, I spent my childhood in their shadow. And it can be cold without sunlight.

That, then, is what set me on this path – the longing for a little bit of sunlight, just for myself. And the path led me right here, upon a ship, somewhere in the middle of the vastness we call the Atlantic.

"Looking for submarines, are you, Blythe?" a voice enquires from behind. I do not have to turn to recognize Polly, which means Betty cannot be far.

And sure enough – "We are a civilian ship. We don't have to worry about submarines," Betty points out, not missing a beat.

At this I turn, leaning with my back against the railing. "Well, that didn't help the _Lusitania_ one bit, did it?"

" _Rilla_!" Betty shakes a stern finger at me. Polly laughs - rather gleefully, considering the topic at hand.

I shrug, suppressing my own smile. "Well, I didn't, did it?"

Betty considers me darkly while taking a long drag from her cigarette. "I am on a Cunard-Ship travelling from North America to England," she remarks. "The last thing I want to be reminded of is the darned _Lusitania_!"

She has a point, I guess. It's been fifteen months since the _Lusitania_ was sunk by a German submarine just off the Irish coast, dragging a thousand people down into her watery grave. Our ship, the Ascania, might be a lot smaller and we put out at Montreal, not New York, but certain parallels are not to be ignored.

"However," Polly pipes up with a fine little smile, "we are officers of the Canadian Army. Maybe this ship is not quite so civilian after all?"

Betty shakes her head decidedly. "We are non-combatants. The Geneva Conventions forbids anyone from harming us." She pointedly pulls at the collar of her dress uniform.

Polly, bless her heart, just laughs it off. "True. And I am completely convinced that any German submarine commander will patiently listen to you explaining the finer points of the Geneva Convention before he gives the order to fire his torpedo."

"He'll have to be _very_ patient, considering how bad my German is," Betty retorts with a giggle.

Then, as if on cue, both turn to me. I've known them for maybe a month and yet have lost count of the many times I have seen them communicate without uttering a single word. According to their tales, they were inseparable even at the school desk, went to nursing school together and now joined up as a pair.

Then, they kind of adopted me, which was certainly very nice of them. There are three other nurses on board, but they are fifteen or twenty years our seniors and have little time for any of us. Polly and Betty have therefore saved me from a very lonely sea journey and I am grateful for them taking me on as a little sister, for however long we might be together.

A wave sloshes against the ship's side, making it roll slightly. So far, our journey has been uneventful and rather quiet, but I suspect Polly especially of not being very seaworthy.

And sure enough, she immediately grips the rail with both hands. Noticing me watching her, she throws me a dirty look – no-one can flash their eyes quite like Polly does, except maybe my sister Nan. "I do _not_ understand how this bothers you so little," she murmurs, half to me, half to herself.

"I grew up on an island. I know the sea," I answer simply. This might be my first Atlantic crossing but I spent my childhood by the ocean and the fishers of our small community could sometimes be persuaded to take a gaggle of curious children out to sea with them. Those little fishing boats got thrown about much more than the ocean liner below us.

Polly and Betty are city girls though, born and raised in Montreal. Montreal is where I spent the past three years as well, attending nursing school – a different one than theirs – but I reckon that you can take the girl from the island, but not the island out of the girl. It has been a long time since I slept as peacefully as I have in the last few nights and only this morning did I realize it is because I have missed the sea.

"And anyway, you should have seen me back when I entered my first elevator," I console with a smile and a little wink. Betty laughs and Polly manages a smile herself as another wave hits the ship.

"So, what did you do then, when not looking for submarines?" Betty enquires, "Conversed with the sea?" She blows a puff of smoke into the wind.

I shrug, consider the question. "Something like that. I suppose I tried to read our future on the horizon."

"Any success?" Polly raises both eyebrows.

"Yes, well…" I reply, drawing out the words, "It's going to be rather foggy…"

This time around, even Polly laughs.

"Seriously though, where do you think we will be sent?" Betty wonders, changing the subject.

Polly frowns thoughtfully. "I image we will stay in England at the beginning. They have to make sure we are up to scratch, don't they? But I do hope we'll be allowed closer to the action in due course."

"Maybe we will even be sent to the Mediterranean! That would be so absolutely _thrilling_!" Betty does, indeed, look suitably excited at the thought.

And yet, it falls to me to disappoint her, "Trust me, you do _not_ want to go there."

Both look at me quizzically, so I set out to explain my point.

"My brother Jem is out there at the moment. He has seen about everything this war has to offer. He started out in London for a few months, then went to France for a time before being posted to Lemnos. Not even four weeks later he had been struck down by dysentery, though thankfully not in a very bad way. The famously good weather of the Greek isles however – well, his unit did not encounter it. Their tents drowned in the mud, there was neither enough food nor clean water. And through all that, the casualties arrived from the Dardanelles. According to Jem, he has never before worked under similarly appalling conditions."

"Jem's the doctor, yes?" Polly asks.

I nod affirmation. "Since the beginning of this year he has been stationed on the Greek mainland. Conditions seem to be preferable to Lemnos, but however valiantly Jem might write about the sunshine and the exotically beautiful old city of Salonika, the nurse in me reads nothing but 'heat, dirt and disease' in his accounts. There's dysentery, of course, and malaria is rife as well."

Only now do I notice the speculative gaze with which Polly considers me. For a moment this throws me, but then I catch on and cannot help but laugh. My tales of life and work in Salonika are evidently not the cause of her interest.

"Jem's _married_ ," I remind her, "with two small children. And even if he weren't, he'd still never look at any woman but Faith."

Polly sighs dramatically. "Yes, you mentioned that."

"But there are more brothers, aren't there?" Betty enquires, warming to the topic but trying to maintain an innocent look.

I bite back a grin. "I can introduce you to Shirley should the opportunity present itself," I promise, even if I cannot quite see how quiet, clever Shirley could ever treat either of them with anything other than polite incomprehension.

"Also a doctor?" There's an eagerness to Polly that is really rather amusing.

"Engineer," I correct her anyhow, "he's with a field company in France."

Polly shrugs, losing interest in Shirley on the spot. "Just as well. Betty can have him and I'll take the handsome dark one from that one picture of yours. What's his name again?"

I look at her incredulously, shaking my head slightly. "Walter is a priest. A _Catholic_ priest."

Not that a small detail like a vow of celibacy would ever be enough to deter Polly. "Oh, nothing is ever set in stone, is it?" She appears quite undaunted, waving her hand airily. There's even a devilish little smile gracing her lips.

Betty, by nature more scrupulous, quickly chides, "Pol- _ly_! You can't _say_ thing like that!"

Laughing, Polly pats her cheek in response. "So _innocent_ ," she teases, gaining herself a glowering look.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think you two only put up with me for my brothers," I remark, raising my eyebrows at both of them.

"So, _now_ you notice?" Polly shoots back, never one to be at a loss for an answer. "Why else did we become nurses if not to catch ourselves a handsome officer?"

Betty purses her lips reproachfully. "Don't listen to her, please," she asks me. "We are here to help our boys and _not_ to get married. At least not first and foremost," she adds.

Not that the last part was ever going to get past Polly. She points a triumphant finger straight at Betty. "Hah! There you have it! We all want to help, but none of us will mind having our heart conquered by a good-looking stranger in uniform."

Actually, yes, I would mind.

Well, 'minding' might be putting it a bit too strongly, but the whole concept of 'marriage' and, following that, 'having children' is an alien one to me and, frankly, a little suspect. Now, I am a little younger than my two travelling companions, so age might play into that, but then again, Faith was only a year older than I am now when she married Jem and she never appears to have rued her decision.

Admittedly though, for having had their third wedding anniversary last month, Jem and Faith only ever spent one year together as husband and wife. Jem, being Jem, didn't lose any time at all to volunteer back in August of 1914. He left Faith as well as their then just three month old son Ian. When Sara was born the following April, her father was already in France.

A sudden gust of wind sweeps across the deck and we hurry to hold onto our identical, blue-beribboned Panama hats, lest they be blown over the rails and disappear into the ocean, never to be seen again. Neither of us cares having to explain to a stern matron just how we managed to lose part of our uniforms before even setting foot on English soil.

"Come on, let's take this inside," Betty suggests, throwing her cigarette over the railing. "Those clouds over there look pretty threatening and according to the stewardess it'll be one or two days yet before we will even be able to see the coast."

"Mh… the _Irish_ coast," Polly says in sinister tones, clearly referencing our earlier conversation about the demise of the _Lusitania_. She laughs, ducking to avoid the blow Betty aims at her right forearm.

Then we hurry to vacate the deck, if only because the clouds that have begun to cover the August sun do look undeniably threatening. Instead, we find our way to the lounge and settle in a secluded little spot by the windows.

We've only just sat down when Polly turns her attention back to me, announcing, "Now, don't you think I missed that skeptical look of yours earlier. So, pray tell, why did you volunteer for the Army if not to catch a husband?"

Why did I, indeed?

I frown, thoughtfully, trying to think of a good – an _honest_ – answer. It is with some hesitation that I respond at last. "I guess I just wanted to be useful. To be able to change something, however small."

Both Polly and Betty nod in consent, which does not really surprise me at all. For all their flippant talk of handsome officers, I know their motives to run much deeper than that.

"Nothing to be said against that," Betty says with a smile.

I, however, cannot help but grimace in response. "Tell that to my parents, will you?" I murmur, more to myself than to either of them.

Not that it eludes Polly's ears, always sharpened lest anything interesting might be said. She considers me curiously, asking, "Why? Were your parents opposed to you volunteering?"

"To be honest, they were opposed to my becoming a nurse in the first place," I admit, if still a little hesitant.

Betty blinks, surprised, but Polly nods knowingly. "Because good little daughters belong to home and hearth, right?" she asks and I've got a sure feeling she's heard that particular argument before.

It does not, however, apply to me. This at least I have to hand to my parents. "That wasn't it," I explain accordingly, "my mom went to college, as did my sisters. All of us have worked as teachers at some point. In my family, no-one is opposed to women learning or working. It's just…" Helplessly I break off.

"Yes?" A little nudge from Betty urges me to carry on.

I give a shrug, but then I do try. "You see, studying English is one thing. It's _harmless_. Becoming a nurse is quite something else. You know that, and so does my father. He's a doctor; he has a pretty good idea of the kind of work a nurse does, even the not-so-nice parts of it. I guess… well, I guess he was trying to protect me from those."

"Makes sense," Betty says with a thoughtful nod.

Polly, as usual, is a few steps ahead. "How come they still gave you permission in the end?"

"Ah, they didn't think I'd stick it out, actually," I answer and cannot help the tiniest of grins slipping onto my lips, "To be honest, I didn't have the best track-record of keeping at anything for any measurable amount of time. And, I mean, nursing school... the hard work, long days, noisy dorms – I heard Dad telling Mum that he was sure I'd be back home in a week or two."

"Which was of course all encouragement you needed _not_ to come back," Polly says, eyes twinkling.

She's a girl after my own heart, Polly is.

I nod. "There were days – you know the ones – when I pulled through only out of sheer stubbornness. Those days when the work is not ever done, when you have scrubbed dozens of bedpans and hundreds of cabinet nubs, having done not a single useful thing by evening and yet sink into bed totally exhausted with sore hands and aching feet. On those days I was _this_ close to giving up and going home. And then I reminded myself that this was exactly what my parents expected me to do, and I carried on simply because I was too darned stubborn to admit defeat. Though, admittedly, my parents did support me once they realized I'd stick it out and, moreover, actually enjoyed it - apart from the scrubbing, anyhow."

There's another truth, then. I became a nurse to differentiate myself from my sisters. I _stayed_ a nurse to show my parents. Telling, maybe?

"Scrubbing bedpans is quite useful. Not nice, but necessary," Betty pipes up cautiously.

Polly, however, just waves her remark aside impatiently. "And am I right to assume that your parents were not altogether very eager to let you volunteer for overseas service with the Medical Corps of all things?" This to me.

"Spot on," I say, pursing my lips slightly. "Moreover, they were categorically opposed to the idea. They thought Montreal too far away and with Montreal they had the comfort of knowing Shirley was there. Well, at least until war started a year after me moving there, after which no-one has ever been where they belonged. _Europe_ , consequently, was out of the question."

"But you didn't…?" Betty starts, wide-eyed.

I shake my head quickly to placate her. "I would not have gone without their approval."

"What changed?" Polly enquires, raising an eyebrow.

Now, I'd like to say it was my impressive talents of negotiation or my convincing arguments which won my parents over, but the truth, admittedly, lies elsewhere. "My brother-in-law was wounded in April. They gave me permission after that. Might sound heartless but that was how it played out."

For almost one year after leaving Canada Jerry had persevered, seven months of which he spent in the trenches of France. Then, in April, he was wounded during the fight for control of the so called 'St. Eloi craters', near Ypres. Only a slight shrapnel wound to the arm, by all accounts – which, in truth, might not be so 'slight' at all, but at least does not appear to be fatal.

"Jerry was to first of 'our boys' to be wounded, not counting Jem's acquaintance with dysentery last September", I explain. "Which anyway, was hardly surprising, was it? I mean, what do they expect, sending people to some forsaken islands in the Aegean? Him catching dysentery was only logical, however much he must have hated to have been a patient in his own hospital. Jem's of the opinion that as a doctor himself he must stand above such banal things as bowel diseases. He only told us after he was well again, so we never even got the chance to worry about him."

"But you did worry about Jerry", Betty says with a sympathetic tone to her voice.

"For weeks on end, my sister walked around like a ghost," I respond, the words catching at my throat for a moment as a remember Nan's dark eyes in her snowy pale face, "and the rest of us were worried as well, of course, until one glorious day the telegram came to inform us that he'd be alright. Even so, him being wounded… it changed something."

"Which is why your parents permitted you to volunteer," Polly says, taking up the threads of my tale.

I nod. "In a way, yes. I reckon Jerry being wounded has forced us to face the facts. It can be any of our boys, at any time. Jem might be reasonably save from shrapnel and bullets in Greece, but Shirley and Walter are both stationed in France and Carl, Jerry's brother, is sailing the seven seas with the Royal Navy, which is not _quite_ the safest place to be either."

Betty pulls a face at being reminded that we, too, are sailing across an ocean, being subjected to all related uncertainties. Polly, more courageous and less pasty down here than she had been on deck, gives her a sharp nudge with the elbow, grinning suggestively. Betty glares back.

I allow myself a smile at their antics before I return to end my story. "The news about Jerry delivered me with the one argument my parents could say nothing against. Even they cannot deny that I will be far more useful to my brothers in Europe than when having an ocean between us. Additionally, I guess, it made them realize that joining up was really what I wanted to do, not just some passing fancy. After Jerry being wounded, I felt like... I mean, I am trained for the job, have no dependants, there's no reason for me not to go. Had I stayed, it would have felt like I was failing them. My brothers, you know? My parents saw that, I think, and it changed their minds in the end. It might also be the true reason for why I am here."

The reason I volunteered for the Army, set foot on this ship and will do anything anyone will ask of me over there, in the naïve, probably vain hope, that I will be able to do something to help those that have gone before me.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Oh! It's a lovely war' from 1917 (lyrics and music by J.P. Long und Maurice Scott)._


	3. Over there, over there

_August 29th, 1916  
Duchess of Connaught's Red Cross Hospital, Taplow, England_

 **Over there, over there**

"Taplow," murmurs Polly, "where the hell is _Taplow_?"

"No swearing," Betty chides mildly, hardly looking up to do so.

I throw them a look over the edge of my newspaper. The hardest part of being stuck on a ship for a week was being cut off of any kind of news. Thus, the moment we left ship at Falmouth I found myself a newspaper boy to get up to date on any events I had missed and kept that habit up during the five days we spent at the Shorncliffe-based Training School of the Canadian Army Medical Corps, CAMC for short. Betty and especially Polly teased me none too kindly over my daily trip in search of a newspaper but then again, neither has anyone in this war for whom the headlines might, quite literally, mean life or death.

"What do you think, is it far from Taplow to Kent?" I wonder aloud, lowering the paper.

Polly shrugs. "Depends on where exactly Taplow is and where exactly you want to go in Kent, does it not?"

"She wants to visit her sister's husband in the hospital. _Obviously_ ", Betty answers in my stead with a little eye-roll. I have a sure feeling that, were she five still instead if twenty-five, Polly would have stuck out her tongue at her.

"Nan's asked me to go have a look at Jerry if at all possible," I hurry to explain, lest the two of them get out of control.

Betty sighs, her mood shifting, "Your poor, poor sister."

"How many days did you say passed between her wedding and the beginning of war? Three, was it?", Polly asks, frowning.

I nod silently. Betty pulls a face. "Ouch," she sympathises.

"Even more so when you consider that they could have been married for a year by that time," I point out. "Nan and Di finished their studies in the summer of 1913, having given Jerry three years to establish his law office, so marriage was entirely possible then. Nan, however, wanted the _perfect wedding_ and spent a whole year organizing everything down to a T. Well, the wedding was amazing, but had she known beforehand how things would play out, I am certain she would have married him the day after graduation, perfect wedding or not."

"Of course she would have!" Betty exclaims, surprisingly loyal considering she and Nan have never even met.

Polly, meanwhile, shakes her head incredulously. "Just imagine – three days after your wedding, and your husband goes to war!"

"Three months, to be exact," I correct. "Jerry did not enlist immediately, probably _because_ he and Nan were so very newly-married. He only volunteered in November, when they called up the second contingent. After that, he spent about another seven months training in Halifax, so at least they were able to see each other occasionally. Still, it was hard on Nan. More so, as even those months were not long enough for him to meet his daughter."

Connie was born about a year ago and christened with the somewhat grand name of Constance Irene, which means something akin to 'the constant goddess of peace'. I understand the sentiment and yet it is a mouthful of a name for a babe as tiny as little Connie. For Connie is what everyone calls her, taking their cue from Di, who took one short look at our niece and re-christened her thusly. I am fairly certain that Nan, not altogether pleased to have her carefully chosen name butchered in this way, would have tolerated this from no-one but her twin, so it's just as well. In any case, the name stuck, to the point where I have even heard Nan call her daughter Connie in an unobserved moment (not that she would ever admit to it, though).

"To think that if anything happens to him, he might never get to know his own child, even if they spend years on this earth at the very same time," Polly ponders.

With a jolt Betty turns to her. " _Polly_!" she scolds, then nods curtly in my direction. Polly, brain apparently only just catching up to what her mouth uttered, covers her lips with a hand and eyes me, clearly aghast at herself.

"Sorry," she mumbles through her fingers.

I shake my head, "Don't be." It may not have been the most tactful thing to say but she has a point, doesn't she? The possibility of both Jem and Jerry never getting to see their daughters is a very real one.

My companions share a meaningful look, then Betty, with forced cheerfulness, enquires, "So, what do the papers write?"

She's trying to change the subject, and none too subtly, but I gladly take the offered hand. "Not much. Hardly any news from the fighting at the Somme and Verdun seems to be quiet as well. Oh, but the Italians have declared war on Germany."

"And to think it only took them two measly years to get around to it!" Polly grumbles. She is certainly not one to feel affected by anything for any time of particular mention.

Betty shakes her head disapprovingly and might have said something in kind, just as the conductor's voice rings out, "Next stop: Taplow!"

A surprised Polly meets my gaze. "Well, that was fast – faster than the Italians, anyhow. When did we leave Paddington?"

I consult my watch. "Three quarters of an hour ago."

A delighted smile lights up Polly's face. "Less than an hour to London? I think I am starting to like this Taplow very much indeed!" says she and wrenches her luggage from the rack above our heads with renewed vigour.

Before Betty and I have had time to blink, she is already at the door of our compartment and starts dragging her suitcase down the train's corridor. We share a look – accompanied by another eye-roll of Betty's – then hurry to get our own luggage and follow.

On the platform we are collected by a pale orderly who is far too young-looking to be anywhere but with his mother where he belongs. I have to hand it to him though that he heaves our suitcases in the back of an open wagon without uttering even a single complaint. Steering it is an elderly man who only manages a grumble in greeting and sets the wagon moving long before the orderly has had time to find a seat.

We are rocking along a small country road quite comfortably, moving through a green summer landscape, passing by grazing animals and quaint little stone cottages. Betty and I are taking in our surroundings with interest but Polly looks downright unimpressed. I reckon she has never spent a day in her life in a spot as rural as this one.

"What's this region called?" Betty enquires of the young orderly. Her voice is kind but he still jumps at being addressed thusly.

"Buckinghamshire," he mumbles after having calmed down somewhat, "I think." His accent places his origins somewhere out in the west, maybe Alberta or Saskatchewan. It's just another curiosity of this war how far this boy has come from home.

Suddenly there's a low whistle from Polly. "Now, would you look at that?," she murmurs, evidently impressed _now_. At my quizzical gaze she points behind me and, upon turning, I am rewarded by a _vista_ only good old England can offer. We don't have prospects like this in Canada.

Against the sky, a mansions rises – oh, who am I kidding? It's a downright _palace_! The kind I thought only ever existed in those romance novels I _do not_ read.

"Cliveden," the orderly informs us quietly, "the home of Mr. and Mrs. Astor."

Polly looks between him and the manor excitedly. "Is the hospital…?", she begins.

The orderly, however, shakes his head and Polly pouts, disappointed.

"The hospital is over there, behind the trees", the orderly points towards a wall of thick foliage. Then, apparently coming to the conclusion that he has humoured us more than enough, he turns his head away and draws back into silence.

Thankfully it's only a further couple of minutes until the wagon rumbles along one last road, then stops in front of a gathering of rectangular huts with sizeable windows. The orderly silently indicates for us to get off the wagon before starting to unload our luggage.

"Ah, so you must be the new girls," a voice comes from behind, making me turn. Striding purposefully towards us is a woman in her early thirties, clad in the same uniform we are wearing.

"Welcome to the Duchess of Connaught's Red Cross Hospital. My name is Isolde Talbot," she extends a hand towards us, which Betty, being closest to her, quickly shakes.

After having exchanged greetings with Polly and me as well, Miss Talbot sharply turns on her heel and approaches the rectangular huts. "Follow me, please, and I'll show you around. Walker will take care of your luggage in the meantime", she says in clipped tones, not even turning back towards us. She does not seem unfriendly per se, but there's something rather businesslike about her.

"We have about 550 beds, making us one of the smaller hospitals," Miss Talbot explains as we hurry to catch up to her. "We started out with only 130 beds in the old tennis court. The operating theatre occupies what once was the racquet court. The huts were built later on, ten of them in total. These are the surgical wards and the medical cases are being taken care of over there." She points towards identical looking huts.

"The hospital occupies ground owned by the Astor family. The live up at the manor. Mrs. Astor sometime comes down to see the patients. The King and Queen have visited as well, as has the Dowager Queen with her daughters. The Astors might be Americans, but they are _rich_ Americans; and for those, even the royal family turns out on occasion." Over her shoulder Miss Talbot throws us a look and there is a fine little smile hanging at the corners of her mouth.

Because our guide does not appear to have anything else to say for the moment, Betty musters up some courage and tentatively asks, "Where is the personnel housed?"

"There's a tent camp for the _O.R._ s over there and the officers live in those three brick buildings up here. As for us sisters, we got Taplow Lodge," Miss Talbot answers, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

Only after she has turned back around, does Betty lean close to me, whispering, "What's an O.R.? "

" _O.R._ is short for Other Ranks," I murmur, "it means an enlisted man. Basically any soldier not having officer status."

This garners me a quick smile of thanks from Betty, just as Miss Talbot abruptly changes direction, leading us away from the hospital huts. We cross the road upon which we arrived, walk around a copse of trees and are stood in front of a white house that may not be as big or fancy as the big house over on the hill but is still very fine indeed. Even Polly appears mollified.

Miss Talbot opens the front door, motioning for us to follow her inside. "You are on the ground floor, rooming with Miss Harper and Miss MacArthur. This way, please," as she points us along a badly-lit corridor.

The room she leads us to is surprisingly bright and cheerful though, and has the look of what might have been a drawing room before it was turned into a dorm for five. Two beds are evidently taken, apparently belonging to the absent Misses Harper and MacArthur, the others are unoccupied. Someone, maybe the pale orderly called Walker, has disposed himself of our luggage in the middle of the room.

"Your shifts start tomorrow morning. Miss Blythe will do duty at one of the surgical wards, while Miss Wilson and Miss Fraser will report to the medical section. Today you have time to settle in and I advise you to get to know your way across the hospital grounds, for starting tomorrow you will not have the time for it anymore," with which sinister words Miss Talbot gives us a curt nod before turning on her heel and exiting the room, letting the door fall close behind her.

For a second or two we stand in the middle of the room, quite dumbstruck, and then Polly starts to laugh rather suddenly.

"Are you alright?" Betty takes a step towards her as if to make sure that Polly is, indeed, alright.

Shaking her head Polly wards off any demonstrations of worry. "Those _Englishmen_!" she gasps. "I swear, only the English! Going to war, letting their young men be slaughtered by the thousand, but their hospitals are built in proper castle gardens!"

"I'll gladly take a manor and its garden over a tent in the mud, thank you very much," says Betty pointedly, as she raises her nose into the air.

Grinning, Polly snaps her fingers very close to Betty's face and we both laugh as poor Betty jumps visibly. The dark look she throws us in response Polly just waves away airily.

I, meanwhile, take a few steps towards the pile of luggage in the middle of the room, and try my hand at unravelling the different pieces. Betty hurries to help, just as Polly calmly walks over to the window.

"Trees!" she sniffs, turning around to face us, her back leaning against the window sill.

"Yeah, you might have heard of them before," I retort dryly while walking over to her and giving her a nudge in the direction of our luggage.

Polly appears to consider protesting at being treated thus but then seems to decide against it and quite placidly trots over to the two beds sitting against the room's long side on left of the door. Opposite, our two as yet unknown roommates sleep, so I am left to drag my suitcase to the single bed by the window.

There isn't much space altogether, but luckily we haven't taken many belongings either. It was made _very_ clear to all of us before leaving Canada that we would not be in need of any clothing apart from our uniform. Naturally, each of us smuggled over one piece or another, but on the whole our luggage is taken up by the different parts of the uniform.

There's the navy dress uniform, consisting of a long skirt and a jacket with a red collar and red cuffs as well as an elbow-length cape, blue with red lining and a chain to close it at the neck. To cover our heads we each got a navy felt hat for colder climates and, for the summer, a light-coloured Panama with a blue ribbon. On both hats as well as the collar we are to wear the brass insignia of the Army Medical Corps.

The service dress is cut similarly to the dress uniform but made in a lighter middle blue with white collar and cuffs. Over it, a white apron is worn and, to prevent anyone from seeing our bare heads, the veils exist. Naturally, they have hardly anything in common with bridal veils, being made of stiff muslin instead of lace, and looking altogether more like nuns' veils, if slightly less restrictive in wear.

Both uniforms are closed in the front by a double row of brass buttons, and cinched at the waist by virtue of a wide tan leather belt with a brass buckle depicting the insignia of the CAMC. Even the tan boots and white shoes for summer are strictly regulated, lest there be any anarchy on our feet.

"At least our uniforms look pretty," Polly points out satisfied and as I turn left to look at her, I see her surveying the contents of my suitcase.

As I raise an eyebrow quizzically she nods with conviction and says, "Haven't you seen those abominations the English nurses have to wear? We drove past a group of them back on London."

"I've seen them, alright. Looked quite sensible to me, to be honest," I remark cautiously. I have no trouble imagining how Polly will react to _that_.

And sure enough, a withering looks gets thrown my way. " _Sensible_ ," she murmurs to herself, in the kind of quietly indignant voice that leaves no doubt at all over the fact that she questions my mental well-being.

"What's the matter with sensible uniforms?" Betty chimes in from the other side of the room where she appears to be fighting (and losing) a battle against her own suitcase.

Polly shakes her head, evidently bitterly disappointed in both of us. "They aren't _pretty_. All grey and boring and certainly not _chic_. And those strange little cape-thingies they have to wear at all times… I mean, what even is the point of those?"

"I once heard that Florence Nightingale insisted on the capes to prevent any straying eyes from seeing a nurse's – well, _assets_ ," I answer, though not entirely sure quite where I picked up that particular nugget of information.

Polly blinks. Then blinks again. "You're kidding!" Clearly, she is absolutely aghast at this news.

I shrug, "I don't know whether it's true. It's just something I once heard about."

Polly huffs, having apparently run out of words to say. Instead, Betty appears on my right. Whether she won the fight with her suitcase I cannot tell for sure, but judging from her unruly hair I'd put my money on the suitcase.

"It doesn't make a difference what kind of uniforms we wear. We all do the same duty," she says, trying to calm Polly.

Not, of course, that it's working. "But we are _real_ officers," insists Polly and fingers the brass stars belonging to my uniform.

Those stars, of which we wear two on each shoulder strap, indicate the rank of a lieutenant and might just be the most important part of our uniform. They leave no doubt in anyone that we are, indeed, officers within the Canadian Army. _Real_ officers with a _real_ commission in a _real_ army.

I give Polly's hand a light slap and, pouting, she releases my star, letting it fall back into the suitcase.

Betty considers us thoughtfully. "Aren't the English nurses officers as well?" she wonders, eyebrows knitting together.

Vehemently, Polly shakes her head. "They belong to the QAIMNS, the _Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service_ , named for the old queen. As such, they are affiliated with the army but they are not actually part of the army itself and, consequently, are not real soldiers either. We, on the other hand, have been commissioned into the Army Medical Corps and as such, are actual officers." She smiles, proudly.

Betty looks at me questioningly. "Is that true?"

"As far as I know, yes, it is," I confirm. "We Canadian nurses are the first women ever to have officially belonged to any army in the world"

Polly nods along to my words, a wide grin on her face. "Impressive, isn't it?" she asks eagerly.

And, though I know it to be a little silly, there's truth to what she said. In making us an official part of the army, there's a silent recognition of everything we do and accomplish. And in reverse, it strikes up a certain kind of bond on our side – because we _are_ officers and we _are_ soldiers. We might not be fighting on the frontline but as nurses we have our own battlefields and we are prepared to fight there just has hard as our fellow soldiers do in the trenches, somewhere in France.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Over there' from 1917 (lyrics and music by George M. Cohen)._

 _The King and Queen are King George V of the United Kingdom (1865-1936) and his wife, Queen Mary (1867-1953), born a Princess of Teck. Mary was engaged to George's older brother, Prince Albert Victor, but after he died an early death she married the second son instead. The pair had six children and are the paternal grandparents of the current British Queen, Elizabeth II._

 _The Dowager Queen is Queen Alexandra (1844-1925), an erstwhile Princess of Denmark and wife of King Edward VII of the United Kingdom. They were the parents of Prince Albert Victor and King George V. Their three daughters were Louise, Princess Royal (1867-1931), married to the Duke of Fife; Victoria (1868-1935), who remained unmarried; and Maud (1869-1938), who married Prince Christian of Denmark (later Haakon VII) and in 1905 was crowned alongside him as Queen of Norway._


	4. Play your part in war

_August 30th, 1916  
Duchess of Connaught's Red Cross Hospital, Taplow, England_

 **Play your part in war**

I make sure to have a little time to spare as I leave Taplow Lodge the next morning to start my first shift in the surgical ward. I am, admittedly, a little uncomfortable. My uniform feels too stiff, my apron too clean, my veil too white. Everything about my appearance screams "newbie" and, after having only just graduated from student nurse to fully-fledged sister I do not revel in the feeling of having to start at the bottom all over again.

I am, however, very glad to have been posted to the surgical ward. Of course, in the army one does what ones has been ordered to do and does not complain about it, but I've always had a knack for the work with wounded patients compared to those with illnesses and diseases. In Montreal I'd even tentatively started to make a name for myself as a decent theatre nurse, even though I hardly expect to be allowed anywhere near the operating theatre in the foreseeable future.

A little hesitantly, I enter the hut I've been ordered to report to. The centre aisle, running the length of the room, is flanked by two rows of beds. Clean, white, properly made up beds, just as can be found in any decent hospital. The occupants of these beds turn to me, observing me. They do not seem unfriendly, merely curious, and yet I am glad to discover a familiar face on the other side of the ward.

Miss Talbot looks up at that very same moment and nods in greeting. "Miss Blythe, good morning. You will, until further notice, do duty in this ward. I have been asked to show you around. So far, today has been rather quiet, so the timing is good."

And just like that here's another thing I am glad to learn. I've a feeling Miss Talbot and I will get along reasonably well. She's the sober, unfussy type, the kind to demand a strict order, but this I know from my time at nursing school. And if it means having to scrub the floor a second or third time, then so be it. I far prefer working with nurses that know to keep order than having to muddle through in a ward where chaos reigns supreme – even _if_ it means having to scrub the floor just that one more time.

"I have not been told how much you know and do not have the time to find out. I will inform you of anything you need to do. Should you have heard it before, you will simply hear it again," Miss Talbot informs in clipped tones.

"Rather twice than not at all," I nod my agreement.

A wave of her hand motions for me to follow.

"As we are a surgical ward, we only take wounded patients. Whoever has an illness or disease, be that trench fever, malaria or pneumonia, will be taken care of in the medical wards. Same for the gas cases. Each ward takes about 50 patients, most of them Canadians, but we also get patients from England and from all her colonies and dominions." Miss Talbot strides purposefully along the centre aisles and I hurry to keep up with her.

"There are four sisters on every ward during the day, or at least there _should_ be. In the evening, the night sister takes over. We are supported by orderlies in our daily work. They keep the ward clean as well as the patients, assisting with their personal hygiene. As nurses we mostly concern us with actual nursing. We distribute medicine and change dressings and also oversee the work of the orderlies. Never forget that you are an officer and therefore, in a hospital, are authorized to give them orders! Some of them do not like being told what to do by a woman but for the ward to run properly you must never let them doubt that you are in charge!" Abruptly Miss Talbot comes to a halt and looks at me through narrowed eyes. I nod dutifully.

"Very well," says she, turning back around. "We, in turn, are under command of the matron and the doctors. To prevent misunderstandings a doctor always holds the rank of a captain at the very least while a sister is only ever a lieutenant, except for the matron who ranks as a captain as well. Orderlies are part of the other ranks, never rising above the position of non-commissioned officers. It helps to keep the chain of commands clear to everyone at any time, just as the army prefers."

I knew that, actually. Jem's a captain and devoted three paragraphs in one of his last letters to explain in detail that he is authorized to order me around. Typical Jem!

Miss Talbot, meanwhile, stops next to one of the beds, taking the patient's chart. Without so much as looking at it she hands it off to me. Quickly, I study its contents. Name and rank are at the very top, followed by mention of his wounds and what looks like a list of medication and treatments. It looks a little different from the charts we had in Montreal but not fundamentally so.

"As you will soon learn, our patients are seriously wounded, as the lightly wounded ones are kept in France, the sooner to send them back to the front. The army is mainly interested in how quickly patients can be patched up and be back in the trenches. Only when a quick recovery is not expected do they get sent to England, and yet most of our patients are already over the worst by the time they reach us. We do not have many deaths, for those that die mostly do so long before reaching English soil," Miss Talbot explains. She gazes over her shoulder, scrutinizing me, likely to see how I am coping with what she has just said.

I, consequently, try my very hardest to keep a straight face, even though the very thought of how many soldiers die in an alien country without ever reaching England – not to speak of Canada – makes me sad.

The patient chart gets pulled from my hands and moments later Miss Talbot is back on the move, leading me to the front side of the room. She halts next to a small table, laden with all kinds of things, and takes pen and paper to hand. Her hand moves quickly, sketching what looks like a schematic map of sorts.

"All wounded in this war follow the same path. The first to treat them is the medical personnel of their unit, chief of them being the Medical Officer, or MO, assisted by men trained to give first aid as well as the stretcher bearers. Next they get taken behind the frontline to an _Aid Post_ or _Dressing Station,_ usually run by a field ambulance, a mobile medical unit. From there on it's further back to a _Casualty Clearing Station_. A CCS is a temporary hospital some miles behind the front and the first place where patients may be operated on. These mobile hospitals are also equipped to care for patients for up to three weeks before they get transported further back still, usually by motor ambulance or ambulance train. The Casualty Clearing Stations are the furthest places nurses are allowed to serve. You do not get closer to the action as a woman and it is considered a great honour amongst us to be chosen for work in a CCS."

Miss Talbot pauses, looks up from her sketch to survey me, eyes narrowed. I have a sure feeling I will get used to this particular look very quickly.

"Everything clear so far?" she enquires.

I nod. "Perfectly clear."

Satisfied, she turns back to the sketch, continuing, "There are two kinds of field hospitals in France, most of them set along the channel coast. _Stationary Hospitals_ tend to be smaller, taking several hundred patients, and in theory are supposed to be more mobile as well. A _General Hospital_ usually has at least a thousand beds, sometimes double that. The work in both hospitals, however, is pretty similar, and patients can stay there up to several weeks. Only those having survived to reach these hospitals but with a wound serious enough to make a quick recovery unlikely gets taken on a hospital ship and brought to England. Here we patch them up as best as we can before sending them on to _Convalescent Hospitals_. This is where they are given time to recuperate and from where, should they be declared unfit for further duty, they are sent back home. For the rest of them it's back to the trenches – and for those getting wounded a second time the cycle starts all over again."

She gives a soft sigh – the first time all morning she shows something akin to emotion. Quickly, however, she turns her back to me.

Yet I do not feel surprise at her words, horrible as the reality behind them may be. It is the one great, jarring discrepancy our work is built upon. We were trained to heal people and yet the army is only interested in our skills to utilize them to get as many soldiers as possible back to the frontline. We work ourselves to the bone trying to care for our patients and make them well again, only for them to be sent back into the same danger that brought them to us in the first place. It is a strange paradox and one, I think, that is not always easily borne.

"Miss Talbot!" a new voice calls out. As I turn, there's an unknown-to-me nurse standing behind us. She appears stressed, her veil askew, her cheeks coloured.

"The man in the fifth bed…" she starts, just as Miss Talbot silences her with a wave of one hand. Together they set of along the aisle towards one of the beds by the door.

I consider following them but decide against it. I'd hate to be in the way and anyway, I might as well make myself useful until my lesson resumes, right? So instead I walk up to a random bed and survey the man lying within it.

He is more boy than man, has likely yet to celebrate his twentieth birthday. His eyes are huge in his pale face, flitting to and fro. He murmurs to himself, incessantly.

I see a movement in the corner of my eye and as I turn my head, I see the fourth sister on duty, walking up to stand next to me. "No idea what's wrong with him. He's been like that ever since they brought him in last night. I hope the doctor can do something for him when he does his round. Right now he's got me pretty well stumped," she admits.

Inclining my head to show that yes, I've heard her, I lean closer towards to boy, trying to understand his mumblings.

"That's French," I observe, straightening, "maybe he's from Quebec? Or the Acadian coast?"

The nameless sister gives an impatient shrug. "Well, what does he say then?" she wants to know.

For a moment, I hesitate. "His legs hurt. As do his feet."

Incredulously the sister looks from me to the boy and back again. "He doesn't _have_ legs anymore," she hisses.

And surely enough, where his thighs should have been there are only two little stumps. The lower half of his bed is empty, the blanket lying flatly on the mattress. They probably took the legs while he was still in France. Only, no-one seems to have told him – or maybe he just refused to believe it?

"I'll take care of him," I announce, detecting instant relief in the eyes of my colleague. Whether it's because she does not speak his language or because there must be easier cases than a boy in denial about the loss if his legs, I cannot tell. Maybe one reason is as good as the other.

For a moment or two I watch after the retreating sister as she hurries towards another patient calling out for her, then I turn back to the boy with no legs. Humming softly I bend over him. It takes several seconds before his looks up at me, meeting my gaze.

"What is your name?" I ask in French.

Surprise registers in his eyes over being addresses in his own language. I file it away as a good sign. At least he's well enough to _be_ surprised.

He clears his throat, then, "Henri."

His voice is hoarse, so I offer him a glass of water from his nightstand which he eagerly takes, drinking in large gulps. I put my hand in his back, stabilizing him, but on the whole he seems strong enough to support himself. Another good sign.

Once he's finished I take the still half-full glass from him, put it back on the table, then sit on the edge of his bed. "Where are you from?" I ask conversationally. Maybe talking will help distract him from his pain.

"Kamouraska," he says. His voice is quiet still, so much that I have to strain my ears to understand him, yet when he sees the cluelessness reflecting on my face the corners of his mouth raise in a smile.

"It's right by the St. Lawrence River. And it is the most beautiful place in the world," he says with conviction.

I laugh-doesn't everyone consider the home of their childhood far superior to any other place in this whole wide world? Well, as long as the childhood was a happy one, at the very least.

"I grew up in Glen St. Mary, a village on Prince Edward Island, and for me, it is the most beautiful place there could ever be," I tell Henri.

The smile climbs from his lips, right up to reach his eyes. He eyes me for a moment, then, with conviction, "So there are two most beautiful places in the world."

Which, all in all, sounds sensible, so I nod my consent. "Tell me about your family?" I ask, trying to keep him talking.

He frowns, but it seems thoughtful rather than displeased. And indeed, some seconds pass, then he clears his throat. "There's four of us. Babette is older than me and married. Jeanine is next and Florent's the baby. He's fifteen."

He pauses, and instinctively I know we are both doing the math, figuring out just how long this war will have to last for it to swallow up young Florent as well. That would be 1919 – but that's nonsense, right? It cannot possibly go on for another three years!

Henri, being the sensitive lad I've already taken him for, notices the mood changing and continues quickly, "My mother is the best cook in all of Quebec – maybe in all of Canada. And my father is a teacher. He taught me right from the very first day of school up until I graduated, and every single year I prayed for God to finally send me a different teacher. Now, father was good at teaching, but…"

As he breaks off, I pick up the thread of conversation. "I know what you mean. I was taught by one of my sisters for my final two years at the village school. My sisters are twins and gained their teacher's licenses at the same time so they had to draw straws to decide who got our school and who had to travel to the one in the neighboring village. And well, what can I say? Di and I both drew the short straw – her for having to travel to Mowbray Narrows for two years and me for being stuck with the much stricter Nan as a teacher…"

I roll my eyes, making it look especially funny on purpose and gaining a laugh from Henri for my effort. Seconds later the laugh turns into a yawn.

"You're tired. You should sleep," I say, trying out my best strict-sister-face.

He nods, well-behaved boy that he is, and pulls the covers around himself when, suddenly, he pauses. Shyly, his hand reaches for mine. "Would you… would you stay for a while longer, sister? Just sit with me, so I am not so very alone?" he pleads.

I cannot help smiling. "Of course I will," I promise. „But now, sleep, yes?"

Whether it is the familiar language or the calming words or the plain fact of having someone take care of him, I do not know, but for whatever reason Henri really does close his eyes and it takes only a little while for his breath to become slow and even. Of course, nothing has changed, really – he is still the boy with no legs and he still has not accepted it – and yet at the very least is seems to hurt less than before. It's not much, but it is _something_.

Minutes pass before I cautiously draw back my hand. Henri moves a little but does not wake up, so quietly I rise from my place on his bed.

"Phantom pain?" a voice from behind me asks. Miss Talbot.

I turn to look at her, "I am afraid so".

She nods slightly. I have only confirmed what she already knew. For a moment her gaze is fixed on the boy before rising to meet mine. "Have you ever heard of gas gangrene?"

I move my head, half nodding, half shaking it. "I've read about it while I was at nursing school but I have never seen an actual case."

"Only a matter of time, now that you are here," Miss Talbot purses her lips. "What can you tell me about gas gangrene?"

For a moment or two I search my brain for information on gas gangrene, then take another second to marshal my thoughts. I am certain that, though the name may imply otherwise, gas gangrene is not caused by actual poison gas, the kind of which the Germans have first released on our Canadian boys near Ypres almost one and a half years ago.

"Gas gangrene is a serious infection, commonly developing in dirty wounds. It can be recognized by the huge blisters, filled with air or gas, which is how the name came to be. Infected tissue turns gangrenous very quickly and the infection has been known to spread through the entire body in a matter of days or even hours. Once vital organs are afflicted, death is certain. The life of the patient can, however, often be saved by early amputation of the affected limb," I say, a little hesitantly.

"Quite correct," Miss Talbot gives a curt nod. Her eyes move back to look at the boy with no legs and I do not have to be told that gas gangrene is to blame for his state.

Maybe he feels our eyes upon him or maybe it is because I have stopped speaking to him, but whatever the reason, Henri suddenly grows restless. Under their lids, his eyes flit back and forth, his head moving from side to side. Without thinking I take his limp hand back in mine, take step closer to his bed and, bending closer to him, start whispering in French. I am not even certain quite what I am saying, but it likely does not make a difference either way. The moment I begin speaking to him, he becomes calmer, and a short while later he stills, his breath going back to normal. Gently I let go of his hand and step back from the bed.

"You speak French?" Miss Talbot has, apparently, been standing behind me this entire time.

I cannot place the question, or rather, her intent in asking it, but still I nod in response.

"Good?" she further enquires.

"Good enough", I retort.

I learned French at the Queen's Academy, if only to escape the prospect of having to study yet more Latin and Greek. And even though I am reasonably sure to live in Montreal without ever having to speak French – Betty and Polly at least seem to have managed just fine – I, quite in reverse, actively sought to polish my classroom French out in the real world. I enjoy the sound of it and, more importantly, I figured it might be useful not to be limited to English when it comes to living languages. When war started, bringing with it the ever hardening resolve to leave Canada for Europe, I consciously intensified my efforts.

The truth, accordingly, is that I really do speak French. But I probably would have claimed knowledge of the French language even if that had not been the case. I did not come here to spend the rest of the war in a sleepy village in the backcountry of England. Right from the start my goal has been to get as close as possible to my brothers. My destination, therefore, is France. And when my ability to speak French will help me get there sooner, I have no qualms whatsoever to share my linguistic skills with Miss Talbot or anyone who cares to listen, really.

Miss Talbot, in any case, seems to have filed the information for later use, for she has already moved on to care for a freshly operated patients a few beds to the right. She is only halfway there, when suddenly she stops and turns.

Indicating the boy with no legs she states, matter-of-factly, "Good job, Miss Blythe."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song '_ _Your King and Country want you_ _' from 1914 (lyrics and music by Paul Rubens)._


	5. Tho' it's spray'd with tears

_September 17th, 1916  
Duchess of Connaught's Red Cross Hospital, Taplow, England_

 **Tho' it's spray'd with tears  
**

The battle of Flers-Courcelette. The first concentrated deployment of Canadian troops during the Somme operations. The first usage of a curious new weapon they call a 'tank' in this war. And apparently, my trial of fire.

Three weeks now I've been in Taplow, and I dare say I have gotten a decent inside on the daily work done in a military hospital. The hospital was overcrowded still from the July battles when I arrived, resulting in us getting fairly few new arrivals, more so as things had been rather quiet on the western front in recent weeks. It was, I see now, a rare opportunity to catch a breath, even for us.

Well, the powers that be seem to be of the opinion that everyone, soldiers at the front and medical personnel in the back alike, surely must have gotten quite enough breath by now.

For us, the result was a full transport of fresh wounded. Notice was short and we barely had had enough time to clear the beds beforehand. Our old patients had to be sent on, to _convalescent_ or _special hospitals,_ or even home to Canada. As soon as they were gone, wards were already filling up with the new arrivals.

We care for them as best as we can. I, same as the others.

So I force my hand not to shake as I position the heavy scissors and, carefully, _carefully_ , start cutting open the dressing wound around the man in front of me. I can feel his eyes, following my movements. Dark, deeply set eyes with a burning expression. And yet, I do not look at him, keep my gaze fixed on the scissors and the dressing, now slowly falling open.

I would have been lying, had I claimed not to have been able to guess at what the wads of mull and cotton concealed. Still, as they fall apart, I have to clamour for every little piece of stoicism three years of nursing have taught me, to keep my face impassive. There's a hole in his body, a proper _hole_. And it's only the man's eyes, fixed firmly upon me, and the knowledge that there's nowhere to run, keeping me where I am.

Three or four seconds pass before I am able to raise my gaze and even as I do it, I am perfectly aware that I took three or four seconds too long. Still, it's the best I can manage. I look towards the orderly, standing at the bed's head end and holding the patient down by his shoulders. There's pity in his eye and I cannot say whether for the wounded man or for me.

"Well, I say we'll need a little help re-dressing this", I announce loudly, relieved to hear my voice is not shaking, at the very least.

The orderly nods, slowly. He is among the older ones around here – too old to serve at the front and yet anxious to do his part. He's seen far more, in this war and in this life, than I ever have and the wound before us, which had me at my limits in a flash, does not daunt him.

Maybe, then, his pity _is_ directed at me.

I motion to a harassed-looking doctor two beds over, point at the man on the stretcher. He's been operated on in France, I reckon, for had the inner wounds not been sutured already, surely he would not have made it here. Why they left the outer wound open I do not know. Maybe in hopes of better being able to catch an oncoming infection? At any rate, I will not be my decision quite what will happen to the man, thankfully not.

As I turn back towards the stretcher, I avoid looking at the wound almost unconsciously. My eyes search those of the orderly, but are caught by the patient's burning gaze.

"Will it be alright, Sister?" His voice is hoarse, quiet.

Truth to be told, I have no idea. Wounds like those are not pretty. They are hard to tread and hard to heal and more often than not, they result in haemorrhage and death. And yet… he has made it this far. Maybe whatever blessing has brought him here will stay with him for a while longer still.

"Sure it will", I say, even as I know that my words can turn out to be either truth or lie yet. To my own surprise I manage to wrangle a smile from _somewhere_ , and keep it fixed upon my lips long enough for the burning eyes to move on from my face.

The doctor's arrival rescues me from further questions I do not know the answer to. He bends over the wound, forcing me to look at it as well. More carefully than would have been expected from his harried expression, he examines the patient. There's a smell in the air, physical somehow, almost intimate, as emitted by many a wound. It's not the rotten stench of infection though. The secretion, too, dripping on the rubber pad below, is clear but for the slight redness of blood. There's none of the yellowish, foul smelling pus we all so dread.

Might he have been one of the lucky ones?

I assist the doctor, directed by curt orders, as he examines the wound thoroughly. Out of the corners of my eyes I can see the orderly, pressing down harder on the patient's shoulders, just as the man bites down on his lower lip. And yet, he does not emit a sound.

"We'll re-dress", the doctor informs me at last, not sharing whatever insights his examination resulted in.

Before a wound can be dressed, however, it has to be clean, as clean as humanly possible. Otherwise, it might still get infected. We use soap and water to wash the skin around the injured part, while a saline solution serves to irrigate the wound itself. Next, iodine is dripped on the wound, before it is packed with gauze coated in boric acid. Finally, the doctor motions for three orderlies to come over and for a second I wonder whatever we need four orderlies for, but it is really only a second. The final dressing has to be wound around the patient's body and for us to do that, he has to be held up.

And now, he screams.

It does not take an eternity to dress him, yet it feels that way. The orderlies heave him up in the air and, though I know them to handle him as carefully as they can, there's no way for this not to hurt terribly. As quickly as we dare, the doctor and I work to finish dressing the patient. Even so, it feels as if we are taking far too long.

Only when the orderlies have let the man back down unto the stretcher and the doctor takes a step back, do I notice that I have had my teeth clenched throughout the entire ordeal. Slowly I slacken my hurting jaw, wipe drops of sweat from my forehead. It's not even particularly warm in here.

"Will he make it?" I ask the doctor in a whisper.

He takes a moment to answer. Almost as if he is trying to decide quite which information he can burden me with. "Hard to say," he says finally. "He's not hemorrhaging, so we can safely assume that major blood vessels and organs have escaped serious injury. That's good. As long as the wound does not get infected, he stands a chance. However, infection can set in quickly with wounds like those, so…" He trails of.

Slowly I nod, and gaze back towards the patient. The burning eyes are closed now, whether from pain or exhaustion I cannot tell. Both, probably.

I expect the doctor to move on, to one of the many other patients in need of his help, so, when he addresses me again, I jump slightly. "Are you quite well? You look a little pale."

Well, _this_ I can imagine.

And for a second, the door at the end of the ward beckons to me. For a second there, I am tempted to agree with him, tell him I am unwell and would like to go lie down for a while. Because _this_ , this bears no relation to the work I did in Montreal, where we treated elderly people with coughs and children with broken arms and where the world was clean and orderly and so much less bloody than it is around here.

But to run would be cowardly, no? And I might have many a fault, but cowardice had never been among them.

So I shake my head, pull out that smile, from the _somewhere_ , where, apparently, I can store and fetch it from at will. "It's quite alright", I assure.

That he expected no other answer is clear from the fact that he does not even question it, merely gives a slight nod and turns, rushing on. I stand back, motionless for a moment or two, listening to my own breath. Then I raise my head, look at the orderly with the kind eyes.

An eyebrow rises in question, just the tiniest bit of a fraction, and I know _he_ does not believe I am alright. Still, what does it matter what I feel like? What does it matter when the patients around me are a hundred times worse?

So, I pull back my shoulders, draw a deep breath, and direct a confident nod at the orderly. The eyebrow lowers and there seems to be something akin to a smile hidden behind his beard.

And yet, for all that, I am grateful for the moment of reprieve the ritual of cleaning hands provides me with. No-one touches a new patient, not ever, without cleaning their hands most thoroughly, the process of which I could, quite literally, do in my sleep by now. So, as I hold my hands under scalding hot water, using soap and a tough brush to scrub away at them, before putting them in a bath of carbolic acid for several more minutes, I have to opportunity to catch my breath, to calm my beating heart. And, most importantly, to shove the man with the hole and the burning eyes into a corner of my memory, where I will not forget him, but where he will be quite safe, while the next patient waits to be treated.

This next patient is younger than the other one and his eyes are not burning but panicked. His face is as pale as the pillow it rests upon and his hair is wet with sweat. As I bend and touch his forehead, I am unsurprised to find him burning with fever.

A dressing covers his right shoulder and, after having made sure my smile is frozen into place, I take up my scissors and proceed to cut.

I can smell the wound long before I can see it. That sickly-sweet smell, almost like rotting fruit and yet not quite. Before coming here, I had never smelled anything quite like it. Now though, I know immediately what is at stake.

The greenish-black colour of the wound only serves to confirm my notion, same as for the boils covering it. They give a crackling sound as I accidentally touch them with my scissors. Still, I hardly need more confirmation. The smell alone is quite enough to tell.

Gas gangrene.

When this day is over, the boy before me will be missing an arm. I know it. The orderly with the kind eyes knows it. The doctor, just stepping up to the stretcher, knows it best of all. Only the boy does not know and I wonder who will be the one to tell him.

My knowledge of gas gangrene has multiplied since the day, not even three weeks ago, when I calmed down the boy with no legs. (He's gone on to a special hospital for amputees and, though in all likelihood I will never learn what became of him, at least I can be sure in the knowledge that he will once again set eyes upon his beloved Kamouraska.)

Truth is, we have no treatment for gas gangrene. We can only ever amputate as quickly as possible and hope for the best. Hope that, along with the amputated limb, the infection, too, will leave the body. Once organs are affected, there's no use in amputating anymore either, and the patient is bound for the _moribund_ ward.

 _Moribund_ is Latin for 'dying'. Latin, in this case, has the one advantage that most soldiers do not understand it.

Apparently there's a new kind of treatment to try and cure gas gangrene while saving the limb. To do so, one has to irrigate the wound with a special solution for several days, which, according to Miss Talbot, is painful and takes a lot of effort. We do not attempt to use this treatment around here though, as it has only a chance of being effective when the infection is still in its primary stage and, often enough, not even then.

This boy has left the primary stage of infection long behind him and that's true for all of our patients. Gas gangrene is too aggressive and the journey to England too far for the infection not to spread. So, however this new-fangled treatment is actually administered, we could not use it even if we knew the details of it. We are left to amputate, hoping to save the patients' lives – their limbs are, by the time they reach us, long lost.

Across the patient's body the doctor – not the one I assisted in treating the man with the burning eyes – meets my gaze. "Very well. Another case for the operating theatre, then," he remarks.

With which words his job is done for the time being, so he turns and leaves, leaving me and the orderly to care for the panicky boy. He, of course, has heard that there is to be an operation, even if he surely does not grasp yet quite what is at stake.

"Sister," he pleads, "Sister, will it hurt very bad?" There are tears in his eyes, however much he valiantly tries to blink them away. Even he, caught in the firm grip of fear, tries to be brave yet.

Gently I touch his burning face. "You will sleep during the operation. And afterwards, the pain will be less," I promise him.

It's the truth, even. He will lack an arm after the operation, but, along with the arm, the worst of the pain should be gone as well. That is, if he will be able to feel anything at all afterwards. An amputation may be the only way to save his life and yet, the human body does not take kindly to being butchered thus. Shock can kill, as reliably as an infection can.

Once more, I touch his cheek and, as I do so, I can watch a little of the panic leave his eyes. It is replaced by – trust? Yes, it looks like trust. He trusts me, this poor, poor little boy, simply because I wear are uniform and treat him kindly. And yet, I do not even have the guts to tell him that a surgeon will take his arm and, maybe, death might just take so much more than that.

I am, apparently, more of a coward than I had always considered myself to be.

I concentrate on his wound, if only to avoid his eyes. There's no use in dressing it, for he will be taken to the theatre as fast as possible. Additionally, gas gangrene is never more comfortable than when covered by a warm, heavy dressing. So I simply cover the wound with a sterile cloth, to keep dirt from getting into it, and leave it at that. One last smile at the boy, before I turn away.

I take in the ward in front of me. What Miss Talbot has told me about the early days of the fighting at the Somme in July comes to mind. This offensive, bigger than ever, that newspapers had still tried to sell us as a success back then. The nurses knew better, long before anyone else, for it was them that, at little or no notice, had to accommodate the countless wounded, blood-soaked, dirt-caked soldiers being dropped at the hospital's doorstep. And there were too many, far too many of them, so they had to put them two to a bed and on stretchers on the floor and were still lacking for space.

Some ten weeks have passed since then and yet, to me, it is a lifetime ago. While they were fighting the ceaseless stream of wounded here, I had still been in Canada still, more ignorant and more naïve and somehow, so much _younger_ than I feel now. Because, even if the scene spreading before my eyes bears hardly any resemblance to those chaotic days in July I hardly dare to imagine, it is, taken just by itself, horrible enough.

I look at them, those brave boys with their broken bodies and for a moment it is more than I think I can bear. For the little girl in me, gazing with utter incomprehension at so much pain and so much _cruelty_ , wants nothing but to run and hide, to close her eyes tightly and cry. Cry for these brave boys and what this war has done to them.

I don't, of course. Instead, I stand my ground, move on to the next bed, the next boy, carry on trying to help them. I carry on, even as evening falls, and longer still. I treat broken bones and gunshot injuries, infected wounds and every other kind of imaginable damage that can be inflicted upon the human body. I, and everyone around me, work for as long as it takes to care for each patient and for however long it takes until we can be safe that, yes, we've done our best for them. Until the morrow.

When, long after night has fallen, I tiptoe back into our dorm, I find it silent. Miss Harper and Miss MacArthur, seasoned nurses in their forties, are on night duty and thus we see very little of them. Now, too, their beds are deserted. Betty and Polly, however, are already asleep in their own beds. They are on the medical ward and, as there very but a few medical patients in today's transport, they were probably done long before me. Lucky them.

Quietly, so as not to wake them, I pull off my shoes and loosen my veil. Next, I untie my apron, fumble with the brass buttons to get out of my uniform and, finally, slip into my nightgown. There's hardly any feeling left in my feet, my back hurts in a way no twenty-one-year-old back is supposed to hurt, and my hands are swollen red and angry. Still, I would not dream of uttering a single complaint – how could one moan about aching hands and feet when, just a few hundred meters away, there lie men with bodies that hardly look human anymore?

With a grateful little sigh I sink down upon my camp bed. I jab at the pillow, in the vain hope to make it a little softer for this one night only. A gust of wind, finding its way in through the gaps along the window, makes me shiver. It is only September and yet, the nights are unusually cold already, so I hurry to wrap myself up in the blanket.

And only now, beneath the safety of my coarse, army-issued blanket and in the privacy only darkness offers, do I allow myself to cry. I clench my fists, bite down hard on my lower lip and try not to let a sound escape as the tears run down my heated face and wet that stone of a pillow.

I am not even sure why, exactly, I am crying. Maybe it's for all those things I have no words for, not even in silence for only myself. For all those things there _are_ no words for.

For all the effort I put into not being heard, I feel, irrationally, a wave of gratitude, when, after an indeterminate amount of time, my mattress dips slightly and the blanket is raised for a bit. Cold feet press against mine and warm arms wrap themselves around my shoulders.

"Shsh," murmurs Polly, "it's alright. Everything's fine. Shhhhh…"

A lie, of course, as she knows as well as I do. Still, it helps. So I let her comfort me in a way I have not permitted in years. I let her bury my face in her shoulder and stroke my hair with both hands, whispering comforting words the entire time, until I have no more tears left to cry and, finally, exhaustion gives way to sleep.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The Rose of No Man's Land' from 1918 (lyrics by Jack Caddigan and music by James Alexander Brennan)._


	6. Dear old Blighty

_September 24th, 1916  
_ _Queen's Canadian Military Hospital, Folkestone, England_

 **Dear old Blighty**

"Just walk down that pass, Sister; you can't miss it", instructs the friendly corporal and raises a cigarette-holding hand to gesture towards an avenue branching off from the main road.

I reward him with my best smile, offer my profuse thanks, and jump off of the wagon. As he drives on, he raises the hand holding his cigarette once more and I dutifully wave him off before turning to set foot into the avenue.

It's been only about a month since I left Shorncliffe Army Camp, but my five short days there were marked by lingering exhaustion from my travels and building confusion about living in a foreign country, which might serve to explain why I never came across the Queen's Canadian Military Hospital. I must have looked accordingly lost, standing on the station platform, until the kind corporal took pity on me. After enquiring where I intended to go, he enthusiastically and not altogether credibly claimed to have the same destination and did I need a lift?

Well, I certainly did. My time is scarce enough as it is, so I gratefully took him up on his offer. It rescued me from a long walk I could certainly have done without. This avenue alone seems to stretch out quite a bit, though otherwise it is rather a nice stroll. The trees are already clad in gold and red and make for a pretty picture, even though it is somewhat chilly for only being late September.

It takes a little while until I get my first glimpse of the hospital and as I do, I cannot help but laugh. I had an idea of what awaited me when the corporal announced my destination as 'Beachborough Park' and now my earlier inkling is summarily confirmed. At the avenue's end, among high trees, is a three-storied white manor house. Which ultimately begs the question whether the English see an actual advantage in establishing their hospitals in proper mansions or if it's just that they have too many of them (mansions, that is, for no-one could ever have enough hospitals in times like these).

After having reached the house, I let myself in, not bothering to knock. In a military hospital I do not expect anyone to have the time to open doors for passing visitors. I am greeted by what once must have been the entrance hall and now seems to have been turned in a common room for patients. As I have no idea where to turn to and do not see any personnel either, I re-utilize my newly learned trick of standing around helplessly. And sure enough, not ten seconds later a man hastens to my side.

"Are you in need of any assistance, Miss?" This from a tall, mustachioed officer with his left arm in a sling and a frightfully erect posture.

I nod politely, explaining myself, "I am here to see my brother. Walter Blythe, Army Chaplain 4th class." Which makes him equivalent to a captain in rank, though, same as with us nursing sisters, the chaplains are not addressed with their corresponding rank either.

"Ah yes, Padre Blythe. I know his room. He has not been here for very long, but I take pride in knowing every brother officer in this hospital." My helpful officer puffs out his chest and, if at all possible, stand straighter still.

Outwardly I keep smiling, as I silently wonder what a snob I have stumbled across here.

"May I show you the way?" A slight bow accompanies his words.

"Too kind of you," I respond agreeably, hoping he will be too sure of himself to notice the laugh in my voice.

As was to be expected, he just motions towards the stairs with another bow and accompanies me up to the third floor, always keeping a virtuous meter of distance.

"The ward for sick officers is this way, please," he explains once up there and leads me along a corridor.

I'd like to put this down to snobbery, but that would, admittedly, not be fair. Officers always have their own wards, in every hospital there is, kept strictly separate from the _ORs_ , the other ranks, which also include non-commissioned officers, often shortened to _NCOs_. A little snobbish it might be, and there's a certain amount of a class mentality so typical of the British in such segregation, but there are practical reasons for it as well.

An officer has to set an example to his men at all times. He must be brave, resolute, composed. And yet, it is not always altogether very easy to be brave and resolute and composed when waking up from an operation to find one has two arms fewer than before. It's bad enough as it is, then, without having to worry about setting an example. So, for officers, it really is far more relaxing to be among their own while recovering instead of having to do it surrounded by their men.

On the other hand, a private or even a NCO has to be polite and respectful in the presence of an officer and has to follow each and every order given, no matter how little sense it might make. That, too, cannot be a picnic when suffering from dysentery or a German bullet in the back. Consequently, for the normal soldier, recovery is also made more relaxing by not having an officer in the room and thus doing without the constant fear that one wrong word might easily result in the forfeit of a week's pay.

So, it makes sense to have separate officer wards, though, it being the English we are talking about here, class mentality will certainly factor into this as well.

My officer guide halts in front of a door, about halfway down the corridor and nods stiffly to indicate that this is my destination. I smile in gratitude, resulting in him clearing his throat doing a third bow before turning and hurrying back down the corridor.

Curious fellow.

This time, I do knock, mostly because I'd hate to interrupt an ongoing treatment. It takes a second or two, then a male voice calls, "Come in!"

As I enter the room, I am met by surprised gazes. No small wonder. Normally, no nurse worth her mettle would bother knocking before stepping into a ward. I put on a noncommittal half-smile to show them that yes, I do come in peace. A quick glance around the room shows it to still carry traces of the times when this was a nobleman's home. The walls are covered in a flowery tapestry and a massive fireplace dominates one side of the room. Of the five beds, three are occupied. Walter is to my left. Carefully I close the door, then step towards him.

Whether it is because of the uniform or the long separation or even because of the fever, it takes a moment for the blank look on his face to turn into recognition, then joy.

"Rilla?" he blinks owlishly, "What are you doing here?"

"Sick bed visit," I say cheerfully, draping my coat over the end of his bed and sitting down beside him.

"How are you?" as I scrutinize him with a nurse's gaze. He looks pale and tired and thinner than I would like. Automatically I stretch out a hand and touch his forehand. Too warm.

"You tell me," Walter retorts easily. There's an amused little glint in his shadow-rimmed eyes.

I allow myself to smack his arm, ever so slightly, but cannot help laughing. "Sorry. It comes with being a nurse, I guess."

He waves my apology aside. "Quite alright. I'm a little better, actually. Those first few days were rather uncomfortable, but it seems to be going uphill now."

With narrowed eyes I consider him. Walter has an infuriating tendency not to call a spade a spade, as they say, even more so when it concerns his own wellbeing. Coming from him, 'rather uncomfortable' can mean just about anything.

"When did you get sick?" I enquire.

"About a week ago," is the answer, just as he leans back into his pillows with a little sigh. Out of the corner of my eye I register that the other two patients have also lain back down.

Thinking aloud, I comment, "That fits quite well. Trench fever is marked by a sudden onset with high fever and aches in head, back and legs. Often, the symptoms lessen after a few days – though patients show a high tendency to relapse."

Most of this I have learned from Betty, who's cared for her share of trench fever cases in her medical ward. She also was the angel to confirm to me that trench fever, while indeed 'rather uncomfortable', is hardly ever fatal.

Walter, meanwhile, looks up at me with a raised eyebrow. "You don't say," he says drily, and but for him being ill he would have earned himself more than a little smack for _that_.

"Oh, do be quiet, you!" I scold. "Otherwise, won't you be sorry when I decide not to come back and visit anymore."

"Speaking of which – how did you get leave to visit in the first place? You must be terribly busy, what with the fighting at the Somme…" he trails of. His eyes have become dull.

I hasten to answer, if only to take his – and my – mind off these particular memories. "Well, me having actual _leave_ is putting it strongly. I got one measly day off. And judging by how the matron looked at me when I asked for it, one could have thought I had demanded she give me her first-born! Although, considering her age, that ship may have well and truly sailed by now, so she would have probably preferred promising me that first-born over granting me a day of _leave_."

Walter smiles. "How did you change her mind?"

"Oh, that," I retort nonchalantly. "I promised her _my_ first-born!"

My reward is a soft laugh from my brother. "In that case, may I express my gratitude both at you sacrificing that hypothetical first-born as well as your matron giving up you for a day. Over in France I worked closely with the MO. I have a pretty good idea of how busy the medical services get whenever there's an offensive on."

A MO, of course, is the medical officer of a battalion. Doctors, working right at the frontline, even down in the trenches or out in no man's land – all those place where the army would never allow women. It might just be the hardest job the medical corps has to offer, and, along with that of a stretcher bearer, the most dangerous.

"You know I've always wondered why Jem never tried to get transferred to a frontline battalion," I say thoughtfully. "Being a MO, always in the thick of things… it sounds right up his alley, much more so than ward physician somewhere out in Greece."

Walter gives a shrug, or something close to it. "As far as I am aware, that used to be the plan, actually. During those first four months, when he was here in England, he could hardly wait to be transferred to France. Once there, though… I mean, when did he arrive in Wimereux? February 1915, was it, along with the first Canadian troops? And with him being there for six months before getting his marching orders for Lemnos, well, he experienced the fall-out from Neuve-Chapelle and the fighting around Ypres in spring. I think that may as well have proved an eye-opening experience to him."

"But shouldn't those experiences have made him try that much harder to get closer to the frontline? Jem's brave up to that point where it turns into foolishness and, for all his faults, he only ever wants the best for his patients," I argue, frowning.

"And were this just about him, he certainly would have done so. I can perfectly envision him, petitioning to be transferred to a battalion so very often that, in the end, the army would have caved out of sheer exasperation. But this is not solely about him, is it? He's got Faith and Ian and Sara to factor in and they are behind almost every decision he takes nowadays. MOs have a curious tendency to die. And Jem knows quite well he has to live for his family."

There's something dull and gloomy in Walter's eyes, normally so friendly and open, and I wonder, not for the first time, how this must feel like for him – the knowledge that _he_ will never have a family, never see his own children be born and grow up. But I do not know and dare not ask.

Walter clears his throat and his eyes search for the empty glass on his night-stand. "More water?" I offer, glad to have escaped a potentially awkward subject.

Not giving him time to answer I rise, locating a jug of water on a window sill. I fill up the glasses for the other patients, then carry the jug over the Walter and pour him some water as well. He has lifted himself into a sitting position and his angular movements are a sure sign that the fever pains have yet to leave him fully.

While he drinks in small sips, I reach around him and fluff up his pillow, so as to better support his back. Handing back his now empty glass and leaning back against the pillow, Walter eyes me observantly.

"Looks like they taught you well in that hospital of yours," he comments, just a little teasingly.

"They certainly do their best," I assure amiably. Because, if they have taught me one thing at all, it is to always be calm and cheerful when in the presence of a patient. And Walter, though also being my brother, _is_ a patient, without any doubt.

"One day off, you said?" he then enquires.

I pull a face. "Regretfully, yes. I took the first train out this morning and have to be back in time for curfew in the evening. But I figured, a couple of hours are better than nothing, right?"

"Certainly," Walter agrees. "I'm very happy that you could make it. It's nice to see a familiar face. Someone from home."

There's a melancholy playing over his face. "Do you miss home?" I ask, cautiously.

Both my other brothers would probably have retorted with some kind of flippant comment but, as is the case with Walter, I can rely on him to be honest. Might be a requirement for being a priest, anyhow.

"Doesn't everyone miss home?" he wonders. "And the longer we're gone, the farther away it seems. It's been ten months since I left Canada and yet it feels like a lifetime ago. There are days when I can hardly recall the sound of the wind in the trees of Rainbow Valley, of the crashing waves down by the sea or the golden laugh of you girls. It feels good to hear your laugh again, Rilla-my-Rilla. Please, will you promise me that, whatever happens, you will never lose your laugh?"

His gaze is serious, solemn even, and I nod silently. There's a sudden lump in my throat and a burning in my eyes.

"Good", murmurs Walter, closing his eyes.

It hands me with the opportunity to observe him a little more closely. Walter, alone among us Ingleside children, has always had something a bit _other-worldly_ about him, in his looks and his mannerism, and the illness serves to emphasize this. I do not know all that much about the fine differences between Catholicism and the Protestant churches, but there's a certain presence to Walter, aura-like, that fits the mysticism of the Catholics far better than the pragmatically austere faith of the Presbyterian faith we were raised in.

In a way I had a front-row seat during the time Walter grappled with his own faith. After finishing his studies of philosophy at Redmond, he came back to the Island to teach at Queen's, just as I started my second year there. I became the person he turned to, thus, simply by being _there_. His ruminations had me stumped often enough, but I always tried my hardest to support him as best as I could at the tender age of fifteen. By the time I had graduated and prepared take over the Harbour Head school, Walter had decided to take the first step and forfeit our Presbyterian faith to become a Catholic.

The next step, however, apparently looked still too daunting then, keeping him in his teaching position at Queen's for another year. On weekends, more often than not, he returned to the Glen, so my front-row seat remained secure. Only, this time around, I had Faith sitting next to me. Forced to bridge the time between her own graduation from Redmond and the end of Jem's medical studies, she had taken over the school in Lowbridge and, using a bicycle, those six miles did not prove much of a distance. In that year, my other siblings were settled at university, Carl was already somewhere at sea and Jerry lived in Summerside, trying to establish his law office. With even Una gone to do a housekeeping course in Nova Scotia, it was really just Walter, Faith and me.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Walter offers, interrupting them.

"I was just thinking that Faith had really shown the patience of an angel with the two of us, back during that one year", I reply with a lopsided little smile.

Walter, catching on, allows himself a smile as well. "She did not have an easy time what with us being around, did she?"

She really didn't. For, while back then Faith only had to pass two years in a somewhat useful fashion, Walter and I were both desperately trying to decide how to spend the rest of our lives. Walter knew, but did not dare – I had no idea. Poor Faith, consequently, had listened with uncharacteristic patience to us incessantly changing our minds.

It took that whole year and a lot of soul-searching until Walter announced his intention to attend the newly founded seminary in London, Ontario. As his earlier conversion to Catholicism had not been public knowledge at that point, Glen had been simply _shocked_ at his plans. And they had only just regained their bearing, when, another year later, I decided to become a nurse – but that's quite another story (and mostly Faith's fault anyway, if you ask me, for without her enthusiastic encouragement, I probably never would have dared take the step).

Between Walter, Di and myself, it has to be conceded that half of us have not developed quite how the Glen expected its doctor's children to turn out.

I have to hand it to my parents though, that they took news of Walter's conversion fairly calmly. Ever-practical Dad has not quite fully understood it to this day, I reckon, but had made up his mind to be supportive, and Mum was, deep down, probably easily seduced by the romance of hymn and Latin and incense – it speaks to that side of her Walter has inherited. As I suspect Faith of having threatened Jem with all kinds of horrible things should he _dare_ laugh, the twins being generally supportive and Shirley just shrugging it off, Walter becoming a Catholic hardly stirred up waters within the family.

Him wanting to become a priest though, that was quite something else! I do not know the details of it, but there were several serious talks, lasting long into the night, between Walter and Dad especially. Not that he could forbid him from attending seminary, Walter being a man and all (maybe there's something to be said about Di's campaigns for women's rights yet?), but both him and Mum were clearly worried. Mostly, I reckon, it was about how much Walter was in the process of giving up – chief of all, the prospect of ever having his own family. How he convinced them, I can only guess, but one morning, after a particular long discussing the night before, when Walter came down to breakfast, it was clear a heavy weight had been taken off of his shoulders. After that, as far as I am aware, the topic was never again broached. And yet, sometimes, I do wonder…

"Did you ever regret it?" I ask, just as the question enters my head. Only once I have spoken it aloud, do I realize quite how sudden it must sound, even somewhat tactless.

Walter, because he is Walter, does not appear to mind though, merely clarifying, "Becoming a priest or becoming an army chaplain?"

"Both, I guess," I say, shrugging.

He takes a few moments to reply, thinking his answer through, as he usual does. I adore this about Walter. He always gives you the feeling of him trying to answer as honestly and seriously as possible.

"No, on the whole I do not regret becoming a priest," he states at last. "True, sometime I wonder how things would be had I decided differently, but that is, perhaps, only human. I have found a home for myself in the Catholic faith that Presbyterianism could never offer me. I am not saying that one faith is superior to the other – only that one of them fits better to _me_."

He gazes at me quickly, as if to make sure I take no offense. With a smile, I try to settle his worries.

"And do you regret becoming an army chaplain?" I ask instead, for I know that last year, after having completed seminary and taking his ordination, he also could have taken over a congregation in Canada. Instead, by June, he had volunteered for the _Canadian Chaplain Service_ , and I have always wondered whether he might have regretted that particular decision, especially now that the war has made him ill.

This time, Walter does not need time to think before answering. "No, this I do not regret. Working with the men fulfills me in a way I've never experienced before. Curiously, it's not even faith-based work in the first place. When I manage to hold mass once a week, that's considered often. But I try to be someone to talk to for the soldiers. Someone who will not judge them. They can tell me their fears and worries and, if they want, we can try and work on those. And maybe, then they can see that God has not left them, not even amidst this war."

"Hard to believe," I mutter, thinking back to the broken men awaiting me at Taplow.

"Are you in need of spiritual guidance, sister-dear?" Walter teases in return.

Softly laughing now, I shake my head. "I'm good," I reassure, even as I wonder whether that's truly the case. "You keep your guidance for those soldiers of yours."

I expect him to answer in kind or, at the most, a change of topic, but instead Walter's face darkens suddenly.

In a flash, I am on my feet. "Are you alright? Does it hurt somewhere? What can I do?"

A shake of his head and, slowly, I sink back onto my seat.

"That's not it," Walter explains, hesitating. "You just made me think of the men in my brigade and that I don't know when I will be back with them. I came here to be there for them and instead, after only seven months in France, I am back in Blighty. With trench fever, of all things!"

He sighs, resignedly, and closes his eyes, letting his head sink back into the pillow. All of a sudden, he looks terribly tired and the fever, I am sure, is only half-way to blame.

I lean forward a little, taking his hand gently. "And yet, it could be worse," I remind him.

One eye opens, considering me, clearly doubtful. "How so?"

"Well…" I respond, drawing out the word, "it _could_ have been dysentery…"

And I am so very glad to hear him laugh, even if it's despite himself, for I have a certain feeling that it will not only be me, having to be careful not to lose their laugh.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty' from 1916 (lyrics and music by Arthur J. Mills, Fred Godfrey und Bennett Scott)._


	7. It's hard to part I know

_October_ _3rd_ _, 1916  
Duchess of Connaught's Red Cross Hospital, Taplow, England – Maidenhead, England_

 **It's hard to part I know**

"Alright, so what's the verdict, Sister?" The young private grins widely.

I put a finger to my lips, motioning for him to be quiet, as I take his pulse with the other hand. Then, after having read his temperature, I jot both down on his patient chart, where I had earlier noted blood pressure and breathing rate.

Only now do I look at him. "Satisfactory," I tell him and the smile comes easily to my lips. He has a double fracture to the right ankle and is thus one of the less serious cases. Though, my calling a fractured ankle 'less serious' maybe just goes to show how far I have come.

Still, it's the kind of injury his comrades envy him for. It's bad enough to keep him in England for the foreseeable future – 'Blighty', as they call it – yet it is slight enough not to leave him with any lasting damage. Maybe, if he's really lucky, he'll even get a few weeks of sick leave in Canada out of this. That's what makes this a typical Blighty wound and, therefore, one of the good ones.

The private nods, suddenly growing serious. "Glad to hear that, Sister. But… is there something you can do about the pain?"

I consider him through narrowed eyes. I have a feeling he's trying to lead me on – his mood is far too exuberant for him to be in any _real_ pain. And yet, when a patient complains of pain, it would be negligent to ignore it. Not that I would be able to do much for him, were he really in pain. We've got aspirin, which hardly ever works, and morphine, which reliably sends them off into a coma more often than not. So, if morphine is not indicated, they are left with little option but to grit it out.

"Where does it hurt?" I take a step closer to the head of the bed.

The grin is back, breaking through that serious expression he has not been able to keep up for even two minutes. "Right here, Sister", he exclaims, slapping a hand to a spot on his chest, where I suspect he imagines his heart to be.

Rolling my eyes, I retort, "I'm _sure_ it does."

Safely putting my thermometer into the pocket on my apron, I am already turning to move over to the next bed, when he calls after me. "Ah, Sister, don't be like that. Have a heart!"

The patient two beds over chortles.

Still walking, I glance back over my shoulder, making sure to keep a straight face. "Whether I have a heart remains to be seen. Yours, however, is further to the right."

For a second he appears confused, looking down at his hand, up at me, down at the hand again. Then, suddenly, he bursts out laughing, adjusting his hand a little to the right. "See? You already know more about my heart than I do!"

Now, I do smile. His theatrics might be ridiculous, but, for all that, they are also amusing. "Nothing an anatomy textbook couldn't have told me", I inform him, before turning my back to him and moving on, for real this time. A little flirting never harms, but we are still compelled not to encourage them rather too much.

I finish my round, all the while making sure not to get too close to our little jokester with his heart aches again, and, finally, slip into the little room at the head of the ward that is the domain of us nursing sisters. As I put a broken thermometer on her desk, Miss Talbot raises her head.

"Well, won't the quartermaster be pleased," she comments drily. I've already made quite a name for myself as having a questionable talent to regularly shorten the life cycle of thermometers considerably.

Still, I will not go down without a fight! "It's not my fault they keep breaking. You want to bet they keep giving me the most fragile thermometers anyway?"

" _The most fragile thermometers_?" Miss Talbot shakes her head, laughing softly.

Of course, she knows as well as I do that there is no such thing as a ‚most fragile thermometer'. Or, at least, not around here. Our thermometers are army-issue, and anything army-issued has a tendency to be depressingly uniform.

"Fragile or not, this time you can be the one to tell Captain Sheperd why we need another thermometer for the ward _yet again_ ," Miss Talbot replies. "When I was there last week he actually wanted to know whether we eat them."

"I shall just recommend them as an excellent stuffing for Shepherd's Pie then, shall I?" I retort, as blasé as I can manage while fighting a smile myself. To be quite honest I do not much look forward to having to explain myself and my destructive habit to the quartermaster again, though that's mostly because he teases me mercilessly about it. He is humorous man, Captain Sheperd.

Miss Talbot nods briskly, but with an amused twinkle in her eyes still. "You do that. Beforehand, however, are you interested at all in taking a break?"

I shrug. "Sure, if there's nothing else to be done?" Strictly speaking, we are due a two-hour long break each day, but reality hardly ever keeps up with regulations. The fighting in France, keeping up throughout the second half of September and right into October, meant that in the past few weeks, I had a break on maybe half of my working days.

"Go ahead. It's fairly quiet today and we don't expect another transport. Ideal conditions to take a break for once. It is nice, believe me. I managed to write an entire letter this morning, without any interruptions!" She raises her eyebrows comically.

I know only too well what she's talking about. All too seldom do we have enough time and quiet to write a letter all in one sitting. Mostly, it's a few lines here and a paragraph there, until, after the fifth day of having the letter sit there all accusingly, one just sends it off regardless, because really, there's no way it's ever going to get properly finished.

"Sounds like I'd better put that break to good use and write to my sister then, shall I?" I wonder aloud. "I've been getting enough complaints from home about my letters being far too few and far too short as it is."

Having already turned to leave, I pause in the doorway. "Keep an eye on the man in the sixth bed on the right, will you?"

"Did he say something?" Miss Talbot enquires, suddenly alert.

I shake my head, slowly. "No, not exactly. He doesn't say anything at all, and to be honest, somehow… somehow that worries me."

For it is not those screaming loudest one has to worry about. Often, it's the quiet, polite ones that _do not want to cause any inconvenience, Sister, no really, it's fine_ , whom one has to keep an eye on. It's them who, after having assured you they are perfectly alright in one moment, die on you the second you turn around.

"I'll look out for him," promises Miss Talbot, "and now, off you go!"

Well, it would be impolite to have her prompt me _another time_ , so, with a little wave, I set off, hastening through the ward. The cheeky calls – heart-ache jokester being loudest of all – I have learned to ignore, glad as I am to hear them. If they have the strength to be cheeky, they aren't feeling all that bad.

Already mentally composing my letter to Nan, I reach the front door of Taplow Lodge, where I almost run into Betty. Hurriedly, I take a step back, and take hold of her arm to stabilize her.

"Huh!" she smiles, "I guess I didn't look where I was going. Sorry for that!"

"Neither did I," I say. Once I am sure she is safely back on her feet, I let go of her arm.

Betty nods absentmindedly, apparently having put our near run-in behind her already. "Are you having a break as well?" she asks. "I convinced one of the orderlies to take me up to Maidenhead. I have to buy a present for Olive and could do with some advice. Polly is still on duty, though, to be honest, I would not expect her to be of much help anyway."

Polly is an only child and, understandably, has little to no experience in buying birthday presents for siblings. Her tastes, too, are very… well, _unique_.

The thought of that letter for Nan makes me hesitate. I really should write it and yet… I'd just have to explain _again_ why I've had no opportunity to visit Jerry up until now. Hardly invigorating prospects. So, "I'd like to come."

Betty smiles – Betty often smiles. "Great! Just go and take off your apron. We'll be waiting."

I hasten to get rid of the apron and get my coat instead. Not five minutes later Betty and I are seating in the back of a small lorry, being driven by the orderly Betty has recruited as our personal driver. It's the only way for us to get anywhere during those two hours of break time. The walk to Maidenhead, even at a brisk pace, takes an hour on a good day, and even the village of Taplow is reached only after about thirty minutes of walking. It hardly needs mentioning that Polly considers our rural placement a personal insult!

"So, how is your brother?" Betty asks, as we are leaving the hospital area.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Which one?"

"Any. All", Betty says, laughing.

She was talking about Walter originally, I think, for she has shown rather a lot of interest in his well-being in recent weeks. She has never met him, of course, but she was with me when news of his illness had reached me, so she probably feels responsible in a way.

So, I answer, "Walter is recovering, if slowly. He appears to be over the worst of it, but the fever keeps coming and going. I expect it will take some time yet before he'll be back on his feet."

"Classic trench fever," Betty nods knowingly. "It's sneaky. Just when you think it's gone, it has a habit of coming back."

I nod slightly, because by now, I am a veritable expert on all things trench fever. "At any rate, he hates it as much as Jem hated his acquaintance with dysentery."

Betty takes up this new thread. "How's Jem then?"

I give a small shrug before replying, "Quite well, as far as I know. He's well and truly sick of the Mediterranean by now, though you wouldn't know it from the letters he writes. It's always a case of reading between the jokes with Jem."

"Hm," with what thoughtful sound Betty falls silent for a moment. I don't think she has given up every last bit of hope of being posted to more exotic realms and my every mention of Jem reminds her that reality has but little resemblance to her idealistic notions. Usually, she is quick to change the subject after any such mention.

And… yes. "How's your brother-in-law, then? Jerry?"

Jerry. I sigh softly. "I don't know, really," I admit. "He hardly ever writes. Not that he ever wrote to me all that often, but according to Faith she almost never hears from him anymore and even Nan only ever gets maybe two or three letters a month when, before, he wrote to her almost daily."

Betty frowns, considering my words. "Curious", she murmurs.

"Yes, something _is_ curious. Moreover, though I didn't mention this to Nan, he's been in hospital far too long by now. In my experience, he should have been released weeks ago. He had been wounded in the arm, mostly a flesh wound with no infection to speak of. I can't imagine that, almost six months on, he's not recovered enough to be sent on to a convalescent home, at the very least."

"You're the expert on wounds," Betty concedes, her frown deepening, "Though I tend to agree with you. It _is_ very long."

Sighing, I continue, "I so want to visit him and I know Nan expects me to. But I don't have to tell _you_ it's just not possible right now. Getting that day off to visit Walter was hard enough and they won't give me another day to go and see Jerry. And those half-days are too short to take the train all the way to Kent, even more so, as those timetables are basically useless, what with them side-lining civilian traffic so often to make way for army trains!"

Pulling a face, Betty adds, "And besides, more often than not, we don't even get those half-days off. Once a week? Don't make me laugh!"

Which is certainly true. In theory, we are due an afternoon off every week, but in practice, as with the breaks, getting time off depends on the amount of work there is. If there's work to be done, work will be done. And, in recent times, work certainly _was_ done.

Before I have a chance to reply though, the lorry comes to a halt with a splutter. Taking a look around, I am surprised to find myself in Maidenhead already. The orderly is already out of the driver's seat, rounding the lorry to open a door for us.

"I have to go get the stuff now. I leave in an hour. Not a minute later. And I don't wait up!", he warns.

"We'll be there," Betty promises with her sweetest smile – and Betty's smiles are very sweet indeed. "And thank you _so_ much for having us come along."

I am not entirely sure, but didn't that orderly blush a little just there? Betty seems to have noticed as well, for, after he has turned, she quickly winks at me. I watch him climb back into the lorry, while Betty lights herself a cigarette. She smokes a few a day and, when someone comments on it, she just shrugs and declares it to be her only known vice.

"Alright. Where do you want to go?" I ask, once the cigarette is safely lit.

Betty gives a nonchalant shrug. "Just taking a stroll, I guess. I need a present for Olive, but I have no idea what I want to buy for her. I figured I'd let myself be inspired."

To what extent a small market town such as Maidenhead, after two years of war, can hope to be 'inspiring', I do not know, but if that's the plan, it sounds fine with me. Really, I am here only to put off writing that letter to Nan for a day or two longer yet.

"Olive's the middle sister, right?" I ask, as we start walking down a narrow road.

Betty takes my arm. "That she is. Edith is thirteen, Olive is just turning eleven and Myra is eight. And the little prince is all of five years old."

Her smile now is tender as she thinks of her younger siblings. Looking at her, no-one would ever guess that the four of them are, strictly speaking, only her half-siblings. At least it serves to explain the age difference between them. Charlie, the little prince, is, after all, nineteen years younger than Betty.

Whatever happened to Betty's own father, I do not know. Whenever the topic is broached – or, really, just touched upon – Betty makes sure to avoid it. At first I simply suspected him of having died an early death and her of still grieving too much to talk about him, but then I noticed that particular gaze with which Polly always considers and maybe… maybe, I think, him disappearing out of the lives of Betty and her mother might not have been all that accidental on his part. To put it like that.

"So, any idea on what Olive might like?" I turn back to the task at hand. We only have an hour, after all, and that present won't buy itself.

"Anything frilly and ruffled," retorts Betty with a grimace.

"Same as every eleven-year-old then," I say with a grin.

Betty puffs a cloud of smoke into the air. "Not you, certainly?"

I shake my head, laughing. "Oh, make no mistake about it. When I was eleven I dreamed of pretty dresses and a knight in shining armour!"

Betty eyes me doubtfully. "What happened?"

Life, probably. But you can't say that, can you?

"I realized one day that Nan would always be the most beautiful of us. After that, pretty dresses seemed to lose their appeal – and the knight just never materialized," I reply instead, flippantly, even though this answer, too, holds more truth than may be strictly comfortable.

For all my attempts to keep the mood light, Betty's expression suddenly turns thoughtful. "Do you get along well, you and Nan?"

I consider the question for several moments, before answering, not without hesitation, "Well enough, I suppose. She's my sister and I love her something fierce. So does she, I know, even if to be honest, we don't have all that much in common. I suppose I've grown closer to Faith over the years, regardless of her being 'only' my sister-in-law. And Di and I, well… at least we've both managed to scandalize the entire village with our life choices, so we've got that."

"How so?" asks Betty, sounding curious, as she directs me along another road.

"Di writes," I reply readily, "stories, articles, anything that earns money and then some. She started back in college and stayed in Kingsport after graduating, to make a job out of it. Which, all by itself, would not be half bad, were her articles not increasingly sympathetic to the plights of the working classes and the women's rights campaigners."

"Your sister is a _suffragette_?" Betty's eyes are wide and sparkling.

I allow myself a little grin. "That she is. Which, by the way, is also the reason why she enthusiastically supported my plans to become an army nurse. Ideologically speaking, of course, working women are right up her alley, _especially_ in a world as dominated by men as the army is, but I suspect her real motives to be much more… personal, shall we say. To this day I remember the way she teased me, eyes all a-twinkle, 'Well, I am well and truly rid of the position as this family's morally questionable daughter now, am I? How could a few newspaper articles with socialist tendencies and the odd march for women's rights ever compare to – how did that horrible Mrs MacAllister put it? To you taking off and running after the army like some common harlot?"

"Ouch," Betty laughs, "not particularly nice."

"No, but true," I concede. "She was just joking, of course, and not even so much at my expense than at that of the Mrs MacAllisters of the world. Di honestly supports me very much, but the good people of Glen St. Mary were collectively scandalized by my decision. I reckon Di would need to jump in front of a racehorse now to surpass me once more as the _morally questionable daughter_."

Giggling, Betty halts in front of a shop window. After considering the goods for a moment, she drags me away, starts walking again.

"In any case, neither of us made our parents' lives any easier, that's for sure. Nor did Walter, come to think of it, what with his inexplicable leanings towards incense and myrrh," I conclude, following her down the road.

A moment passes, then, abruptly, Betty asks, "Do you ever regret it? Coming here? Leaving your family?" She has come to a halt again, her gaze firmly fixed on the window of a shoemaker's shop. Seeing as this is hardly the place to get a proper present for Olive, I conclude that she simply does not want to look at me. Instead, she pulls frantically at her cigarette, the ashes falling to the ground at an alarming rate.

I take a second to collect my thoughts before answering, carefully, "I miss them. Every day and sometimes like crazy. But… they don't need me. That, I think, makes it bearable. I haven't left anyone who depends on me."

"Not even your parents? Your mother?" Betty wants to know, still seemingly fascinated by the shoeshine and bootlaces. This, evidently, is not about me.

"They miss me too, or, you know, I certainly hope so." My quip though, does not get a reaction, so I turn serious again. "They might miss me, but they do not _need_ me. Perhaps, if everyone else had already been gone, things would've been different, but that's not the case, is it? Jem closed down home and office the moment war was declared and resettled Faith and Ian from Lowbridge to Ingleside. Nan, too, came back from Summerside after Jerry had left for good. Truth to be told, Ingleside hasn't been as, well, _full_ for a very long time, especially since the births of Sara and Connie."

Betty nods, absentmindedly. She lets the cigarette drop to the ground, crushing it with the heel of her boot. Then, suddenly, she turns away from the shoemaker's shop and I have to hurry to keep pace with her.

Walking swiftly, I continue, "Besides, I don't see why I should feel especially guilty about leaving. If I have a responsibility towards my parents, then so do my siblings. The boys went overseas, same as me, and Di didn't go home either, did she? What's more, she moved to Toronto last year, to live with a friend from college, and in its own ways, Toronto is hardly closer to the Glen then Europe is!"

"It's easier for you, I suppose. You are all grown up. You can share the responsibility", Betty says, quietly.

And she can't. Edith might be older now than Betty was at her birth, but in the eyes of the big sister though, she is but a child yet. And she will never be quite grown up to be trusted to support their mother in the way Betty herself has done.

"Do you regret it, then?" I ask, softly.

First, an angry shake of the head. Then, almost imperceptibly, a nod. Finally, a frustrated shrug.

"I don't think so. Not really. It's just that sometimes I wish I could be here _and_ back home. I want to be here, to be doing this, only… when I think of all the work mum has with the children, I'd also like to be back there to help her." She sighs heavily.

There's nothing I could possibly say in reply, for how am I to try and judge her position, so utterly different from my own? So, instead, I gently squeeze her arm and am rewarded with the ghost of a smile in return.

"It's quite alright," Betty assures bravely. "I am just being melancholic, I guess. Don't take me all that seriously, please. It's probably just Olive's birthday coming up and me realizing it'll be the first one I will miss."

For a moment, her eyes looks suspiciously wet, so I do the only thing I can think of – distracting her.

"Then we'd better hurry to find the very best of presents for Olive, don't you think? That lorry leaves after exactly an hour and the driver _does not wait_!" I do my best to imitate the driver's voice and, though Shirley is the mimic amongst us, I do a passable job. At least it gains me another smile from Betty.

"Too right you are. Let's find the very best of presents for Olive!" she exclaims with new-found vigour.

Resolutely, she marches towards a little shop, pushing open the door to go inside. I hasten to follow, the best to support her in finding that present, even though it must be clear to both of us that no present, however amazing, could ever compensate Olive for her big sister missing her birthday.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Good-bye-ee!' from 1915 (lyrics and music by R.P. Weston und Bert Lee)._


	8. Up to mighty London

_October 20_ _th_ _, 1916  
London, England_

 **Up to mighty London**

London might just be the dirtiest place in the world. Even the air is heavy with soot. It makes you feel like you will never be clean again and never breathe quite as easily. Maybe it's only right, then, for the train stations to be amongst the dirtiest places in this dirty city.

It is, therefore, with considerable impatience that I stand on the platform of Paddington Station, on the lookout for my brother. For one thing, I'd hate having to be here for longer than absolutely necessary, and for another, my train back to Taplow leaves in precious few hours.

Suddenly, a voice behind me says, "Now, would you look at that! You look almost grown-up."

I spin around, and even though I should probably be giving him what-for for his cheek alone, I throw my arms around his neck instead, and hold him tightly for several seconds. Only then do I step back, the better to look at him.

It's been one and a half years, almost to the day, since I've last set eyes on Shirley. He was still in Canada back then, just preparing to leave that training camp in Ottawa for England, and I have to admit that he, too, has grown up in the meantime. Only, I'm not sure whether that is really a good thing, everything considered.

"Hello, brother-dear," I greet, amiably. I am far too happy to see him, alive and well and _healthy_ , not to be able to overlook his teasing.

"Hello yourself," he retorts with a grin.

Because I know Shirley not to be a fan of overlong displays of affection, much less in public, I let go of him, albeit a little regretfully. Instead, I link arms with him and drag him over to the exit. I do _not_ want to stand around on this grimy platform any longer than at all necessary.

"Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?" I ask as we move to leave the station.

Shirley shakes his head. "Not really. But then, we wouldn't be allowed to eat together anyway." The way he says it makes it clear I should have known this – while, at the same time, he is obviously perfectly aware of my not knowing.

Still, I do him the favour of enquiring, "Why ever not?" He's right about me not knowing, anyhow.

He raises the arm not linked with mine and taps the two brass stars on my shoulder, "Officer," then indicates the three chevrons sewn onto his uniform, "and sergeant."

Which explains just about nothing. Sure, he's a non-commissioned officer, NCO for those in the know, but what's that got to do with food?

Shirley, having taken note of my confusion, smiles, decidedly amused. "As an officer, you are not allowed to fraternize with the lower ranks. Actually, us walking like this and talking is already frowned upon, but when it comes to the consumption of food, the army draws the line."

"Well, the army sure likes to draw all kinds of lines, doesn't it?" I murmur rebelliously, seeing Shirley's smile widen.

Honestly, though! Some of those rules… the less said about them, the better.

"Why aren't you an officer, anyway?" I wonder aloud, just as we are leaving the impressive station building, stepping into the busy bustle that is London.

If Shirley thinks the question strange, he does not show it. And maybe it isn't even so very strange? He's the only non-officer among us, after all. With Jem, Walter and me, the rank is tied to the work we do and Jerry was commissioned a lieutenant based on his college education, I think. Shirley though, even with a masters in engineering, still takes his place in the ranks.

"I am good at making things work," Shirley replies easily, "I am _not_ good at leading people."

An explanation, captivating in its simplicity.

"However, there have been some rumblings lately of me being sent on an officers training course sometime in the none-too-distant future", he continues with a shrug, "so, maybe next time we see each other, we might even be able to grab a bite to eat." He waggles his eyebrows and I can't help but laugh.

"Next time," I confirm. "And what do we do _this time_?"

Another shrug from Shirley. "Depends on what you want to see. We can go to see the Palace or down to Parliament. Then there's the Tower and more churches than even Walt could wish for – Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral… And, of course, even more museums than churches. During my month of disciplinary transfer I discovered the British Museum. You could spend that whole month in there and still not see everything there is."

"Disciplinary transfer?" I repeat quizzically, too distracted by his choice of words to focus on museums.

Shirley gives a laugh. "Not a real disciplinary transfer, mind you. That's just what the men in my old unit called it. Remember how the powers that be called me back in February to help with the newbies?"

I frown, then nod. After five months in France, Shirley had indeed been ordered back to England early this year. He was amongst a group of experienced soldiers meant to support a newly-created engineers' company, as far as I understood it. Now, he wasn't altogether very happy to be back in England, after already having spent almost six months there last year, but within four weeks he was back across the channel, so I suppose he managed to cope. He's been in France ever since, anyway.

"So, that's my disciplinary transfer. And while it lasted, I spent an off-day perusing the wonders of the British Museum. Want me to show you? There's a tube station over there." His free arm points down the road.

The tube. I wrinkle my nose. The museum sounds nice, but the thought of setting foot into a train _under the surface_ … well, it's an experience I could do without.

"Oh, maybe," I say noncommittally, waving my hand about. "Isn't there anything to see that's, well, a bit closer? I only have a half-day off, after all, and my time is limited. I have to be back by curfew this evening."

Not that Shirley was ever going to buy it. "You're scared of riding the tube?" he asks, incredulous, before breaking into a wide grin. Instinctively I know that he, too, remembers my first encounter with an elevator, all the way back in Montreal, long before the war. To put it in a nutshell… it was not one of my more laudable moments.

Still, that's in the past, right?

"Not everyone can be besotted by those new-fangled contraptions you love so much. And, anyway, how can a train running all the way down under the surface not be the stuff of the devil?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Never said it wasn't, did I?" Shirley agrees easily. "Only… it's so very _convenient_."

With a wave of my hand, I brush his remark aside. "Whatever you say, Doctor Faustus," then, returning to the problem at hand, "now, do you know a place we can go to or not?"

"'Go' being the key word, right?" Shirley retorts, not missing a beat. He welcomes the smack I direct at his forearm with a laugh.

I follow up the blow with a glare. Not that he looks affected by this either.

Raising a placatory hand, he says, "Alright, no need to kill me. You are a nurse, remember? You are not allowed to kill. Isn't there some kind of oath to that effect?"

"The Hippocratic oath? That's for doctors. Nurses aren't bound by it," I shoot back.

"In that case… forget I ever said anything," Shirley quickly amends with a smile and a wink. As I make a point not to react, he stops, gives a theatrical little bow. "May I interest the lady in a walk through Kensington Park then? It's not far from here. You aren't cold, are you?"

With October being a good three weeks old and promising to be the harbinger of a Siberian winter, temperatures are indeed only slightly above freezing. A little fresh air, though, has never harmed anyone, even more so as I usually spent my time between dorm and ward, the latter especially not being known as the sweetest smelling of places.

"Kensington Park sounds lovely," I therefore concur.

Arms linked, we set off along the road, revelling in a moment of silence.

No-one acquainted with both of us would be surprised to hear I am the one to break it in the end. "You know your way around London quite well."

"Apart from those weeks in February, I came up several times while stationed in Shorncliffe with my old unit last year. Whenever we got a day off, we escaped to London. Don't you do that?" Shirley wonders.

I shake my head. "Polly dragged me along once, not long after we came to Taplow, but after that… well, Polly still comes here whenever she gets the chance, which isn't altogether very often, but Betty and I usually don't get further than Maidenhead. For a half-day it's hardly worth the effort when there's no special reason, like you being on leave is. Besides… it's terribly dirty, isn't it?" I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

"There's so much to see, though. I liked living in Montreal, but in comparison to London, even Montreal seems provincial, in spite of its being Canada's biggest city," Shirley argues.

Montreal was our shared temporary home. Out of his five years and my three years there, only one overlapped, when he was just finishing up his studies at McGill University and I had only started my time at the Royal Victoria Hospital, but even so, we were the only ones in our family who ended up there. Looking back, I am grateful for that one year – the last year of peace. Because, in spite of my living in the nurse's dormitory and Shirley occupying a draughty rented room, we've never seen more of the other before or since. I ended up being the only one he told of his plans to enlist – everyone else he only informed after the fact.

For, while Jem joined up during that heady August days, when we still thought war would be over by Christmas, Shirley elected to wait. He'd only just left college, had taken on his first job as a consulting engineer in Montreal and, being the thoroughly rational being he is, chose to wait and see how the European situation would develop before giving it up. Therefore, he only volunteered with the second contingent, when war was already three months old. It might not sound like much, but when you consider quite what happened in those three months, they made a world of difference. Three months were enough to carry Jem to Valcartier and further on to England, and three months were enough to make anyone realize that this war would be many a thing, but definitely not be over soon.

In a nutshell, Jem joined up when we all thought the war would be won by Christmas, and Shirley joined up when we all knew it wouldn't be.

That's Shirley for you. No rash decisions for him, thank you very much. And so he only enlisted once he could be sure he would not be giving up his civilian life for nothing. Jem never considered waiting and, I suspect, neither would Jerry have done, had he and Nan not been married so very recently. That being as it was, he, too, only went at the beginning of November, same as Shirley, knowing all too well it might be a considerable while before he could return to his bride.

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind of _that_ thought. It only leads to the question of _when_ all of us will return, and that leads to the question of who might _not_ return and that's not something I ever want to consider.

"So, how did you spend your leave so far?" I enquire instead, trying to sound upbeat. My sudden cheerfulness earns me a curious glance from Shirley, but he lets it slide.

We've reached a park now, probably the promised Kensington Park, and, for all it being clad in its winter dress already, I can imagine what it'll look like once frost has relaxed its grip. Maybe London isn't dirty _everywhere_.

"I did some travelling, met some people. Walt sends his love, by the way," Shirley replies in his matter-of-fact way.

This succeeds in gaining my attention, anyhow. "Walter!" I exclaim. "Why didn't you say? How _is_ he?"

Shirley shrugs – one of his preferred forms of communication. "When I was there he was quite well, but last week he's had another bout of fever, apparently. He's well and truly sick of that hospital by now, but I don't expect him to be able to leave it all that soon."

"It's persistent, trench fever," I confirm with a nod.

"Mostly he's worried that he won't be posted back to his unit after recovering," Shirley continues, "Which, in truth, really is pretty likely."

I cock my head to the side. "Why wouldn't he be posted back to his unit?"

"It's different for normal enlisted men, but for officers and the like, once they get moved to a hospital in England, their position is often assigned to someone else. When they stay in France, even when in a hospital, the position is only temporarily filled and they can have it back on their return, but when they have to go to England, it's usually gone. Once they are recovered, the army will simply have them fill another posting that's vacant at the time. The likelihood of that being in their old unit is negligible at best and even lower in Walter's case. There aren't all that many catholic chaplains anyway – one for every brigade, if at all," Shirley explains.

"Oh, he won't like being separated from his men for good. He feels responsible for them," I remark, with sympathy.

"Don't we all?" Shirley says simply and quite suddenly I am reminded of the fact that, as an NCO, he, too, has men under his command.

"Still, poor Walter," I sigh. "First the fever and then he won't even be allowed to go about pastoring where he wants to."

Shirley nods, but appears to have moved on from the subject of Walter's tribulations already. "Speaking of being posted elsewhere… did I mention my meeting Carl?" he enquires casually.

I blink, surprised. " _Carl_?"

"Yes, _Carl_ ," Shirley retorts with fine emphasis. "Remember Carl?"

He's trying to tease, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

"Hardly, to be honest," I reply instead and that's only halfway in jest.

It's been a _ver_ y long while since any of us has seen Carl and it feels so much longer, for even before the war we've seen precious little of him. Carl decided long before me that college was not for him, left Queen's after his first year and, at the ripe old age of sixteen, ran away to join the merchant marine. Ever since, he's been sailing the oceans and, when finding himself in England in August 1914 quite by chance, he did not hesitate to transfer his loyalty to the Royal Navy. He's an able seaman and, knowing Carl, he'd fight tooth and nail to prevent a promotion.

Since he joined the Navy, it's been even more difficult to stay in contact with him, more so, as Carl gets easily bored by writing letters. He makes sure to put the odd line to paper once in a while, but still you can never be sure where he is or what he does. He's alive and well and that, I guess, is what we have to content ourselves with.

Until now, apparently.

"Still want to know how he's been?" Shirley asks with a raised eyebrow.

I roll my eyes in reply. "Tell!" I order, using all the authority my uniform and two months of keeping tabs on an unruly ward have invested me with.

Shirley puts a little distance between us at this, but answers, "He's reasonably well, which makes for a nice change. He's as cagey on details of his war experiences as he's always been, but I'm fairly certain he was in the Mediterranean during the fighting at the Dardanelles and he has implied that his ship was torpedoed and sunk off of the Turkish coast, but…"

He does not get any further. " _Torpedoed_?" I interrupt. My voice sounds unusually high even to my own ears.

Soothingly, Shirley shakes his head. "Not to worry. He's fine, so whatever happened, he got through it quite unscathed. Somehow, I have a feeling that it isn't Carl's life we have to worry about. He's become a seaman, through and through – the _sea_ will not harm him. I mean, he's already survived one and a half years in a submarine, which is no mean feat."

"A _submarine,_ " I repeat, shuddering slightly at the thought as I do every time when remembering Carl in one of these contraptions. Thinking of the tube makes me feel uneasy – thinking of a _submarine_ makes me feel quite sick.

At the very least, I serve to amuse my brother, for there's a slight grin flashing across his face. "Not for you, is it?" he asks – not that I'd ever deign to answer, of course. Without waiting for me to, anyhow, he adds, "At any rate, Carl says he's being transferred, but it will be to another submarine."

"He's crazy", I mutter, "completely crazy!" To live for weeks and months on end in a tin box in the middle of the sea… and to go and actually _like_ it…

I look up at Shirley, only to find, to my surprise, the grin having given way to a deep frown.

"Speaking of crazy," he says, hesitantly, "I've been to see Jerry."

And just like that, any thoughts of Carl and submarines are gone from my mind. "What do you say? C _razy_?" My voice is curiously toneless.

"Ah, no, sorry. _Crazy_ isn't the right way to put it," Shirley amends, "but…" He breaks off, gives a helpless shrug. Whatever it is, he feels uncomfortable having to be the one to tell it.

"But, _what_?" I prompt.

Shirley sighs. " _But_ … ah, well… you know they moved him to a different hospital at the beginning of the month?

Impatiently, I nod. "To a special hospital in Buxton," I say. Buxton is all the way up in Derbyshire and when I heard Jerry had been moved there, it was immediately clear I would not get a chance to visit him before getting proper leave. And proper leave is usually only given after six month of service, if then.

"And do you know what they specialize on in this special hospital?" Shirley responds and I have a sure feeling he's just going to keep asking questions until I am forced to say out loud what he does not want to tell.

Actually, I really do know what they specialize in at the Canadian Red Cross Special Hospital in Buxton. Miss Talbot told me. So, I tick off, "Rheumatic fever, arthritis and neuritis, neuralgia and myalgia, otitis and nephritis, insomnia, diseases of the heart and –"

Abruptly, I break of. I know now, where this is leading. Hesitantly, almost shyly, I search Shirley's eyes. He nods, nearly imperceptible, prompting me to go on.

"… and neurasthenia." My voice trembles.

So that's what he meant by _crazy_.

"Shell shock", Shirley confirms quietly.

There's something ominous to the words. Something vague, but threatening.

"How…?" I begin, trailing off when I realize I have no idea how to end the question.

Thankfully, Shirley understands me even without so many words. "He's not totally bonkers, having to be locked up or anything like that. He's… nervous. Shuffling. Cagey somehow. Can't keep still and won't look at you. Jumps whenever he hears a sound. Trembles. Quite thin, too. It's classic, really. I've seen the likes of him before, only… it's different when you know them. When you know how they used to be and see how they are now."

I let the words sink in for a few seconds, as we silently stroll through the park. It takes some time to work up the courage for my next question. "Do you think he'll get better?"

Shirley frowns. "No idea," he admits. "His arm is pretty much healed, so that's something. As for the trembling… I have no idea." He shrugs, helplessly.

And how could he? _I_ hardly know anything about shell shock and I am a nurse!

"Do you suppose we ought to write to Nan?" Shirley asks, looking at me quizzically from the side.

Now I'm the one shrugging. "That's the question, isn't it? She has a right to know, that's certain, and she's terribly worried because he hardly ever writes and because they _still_ won't release him. It's just… what to write? We know next to nothing ourselves." I cannot stop a frustrated sigh from escaping my lips.

"But she must know, right?" Shirley asks.

I nod, slowly. He's right, she _must_ know. But it won't be him, writing that letter. Letter-writing does not come easily to him at the best of times. Writing this particular letter might yet prove to be beyond him. So, it'll have to be me and, even though I already know I will do it in the end, I abhor the thought. I hate to be the one to hurt her.

He must have felt my reluctance, gently squeezing my hand and, short as it is, the gesture is comforting. With an encouraging smile, he nods to the left. "Look, there's Kensington Palace."

And though I know this to be a thinly veiled attempt at distraction, I follow his gaze. Kensington Palace is a brick building that would look plain but for how vast it is. As I ask about some trivial architectural detail, Shirley answers readily, only too glad to leave the subject of Jerry far behind him.

I try to concentrate on his explanations, I really do, but my mind is all a-jumble. It takes several moments for me to arrange my thoughts into some semblance of order. Once they set into place, however, a single thought stands out in front of the others.

Almost two years of war have passed without it hurting any of us. Sure, there was Jem and his dysentery – which could easily have ended up fatal, as I very well know – but as Jem makes such a big joke out of it, it's easy to forget quite how dangerous that could have been. Apart from his illness though, there's been nothing, for very many months – until now.

Jerry's injury, Walter's illness, now _this_ … somehow it feels as if war has moved a lot closer in recent weeks. Threateningly close, really. Or maybe… maybe it's just that _I_ am closer to it now?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' from 1912 (lyrics and music by Jack Judge)._


	9. Parley-voo

_October 30_ _th_ _, 1916_ **  
** _Paris, France – No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France_

 **Parley-voo**

"First time in Paris?" my driver enquires.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I glance at him. He's an orderly, terribly young-looking and, currently, grinning wildly. Reluctantly, I raise my head from where I had my forehead pressed against the cool windowpane of the car. With whatever dignity I can manage, I sink back into the seat.

"First time in France", I admit and, to my own chagrin, notice my cheeks growing warm. Not at being in France for the first time, for surely there's no shame in that, but because I have greeted my first glimpse of Paris with all the excitement of a child on Christmas Day. London, through which I strolled with Shirley just ten short days ago, might be the biggest city in the world, but Paris is something else.

To my surprise, mainly because I had not thought it possible, the young man's grin grows wider still. "Care for a tour?" he offers, waggling his eyebrows.

Would I care for one? What a question! Yet, I hesitate. "I don't think that's within regulations, actually."

Even as I say it, I find myself hoping he'll convince me otherwise and yes, he's quite willing to deliver. "We'll just say your train was late. Trains are always late these days, aren't they?" He gives a conspiratorial wink and I can't help laughing.

And thus, I get the pleasure of a private tour through Paris. It doesn't take long, probably because my driver, in all honesty, doesn't possess quite as much courage as he wants me to think. Still, I am fairly certain that to travel from the Gare du Nord to Saint Cloud you do not normally pass Louvre and Palais Royal, Arc de Triomphe and Hôtel des Invalides, Grand Palais and Petit Palais and the Seine.

"And, this is la Tour Eiffel. You might not have noticed it before," my little guide jests, pointing towards the steel construction dominating the skyline.

There's about no way for me not to have noticed it, of course. "I glanced at it in passing," I retort, taking up his game by intentionally aiming to sound unimpressed.

This gets me another grin from him. He's a happy person, that's for sure. "Hideous, of course. There's no questioning that. But still the highest man-made… well, _something_ in the world. Has been for about thirty years. Did you know that?"

"No, I actually wasn't aware of that. How come you know so much about Paris? You aren't French, are you?" Curiously, I look at him. His uniform, at least, is khaki, as is characteristic of the British Empire, and not of the admittedly much nicer greyish blue the French uniforms are made of.

"Canadian, same as you, Sister," he confirms with a nod. "And being French-Canadian, I might be out here fighting for King and Country, but the motherland of my ancestors will always be beautiful France. And Paris is her heart." He gives an extravagant sweep of an arm and a rakish wink and I couldn't keep myself from laughing if I tried.

"Where are you from, then? In Canada, I mean?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Small village on the Acadian coast. It's quite out of the way. You wouldn't have heard of it."

"Don't say that! I'm an Island girl. We probably didn't grow up all that far from one another," I reply.

Surprised he looks at me. "Prince Edward Island?"

"Good old Abegweit," I nod, using the old Indian name for our island. _Abegweit_ translates to 'cradled on the waves' and is so much more romantic than the name of some long-dead English Prince, father of Queen Victoria or not.

"I had you picked as being from Montreal, actually. You sound like it," the orderly admits.

"And I am glad to hear my French sounds like anything at all apart from 'a butchered second language'," I laugh.

Vehemently, my little guide shakes his head. "No, really, Sister. I figured you're more of an English-speaker in normal life, but your accent places you in Montreal in some way. Am I right?"

"I learned French in school but refined it in Montreal," I confirm.

He nods, clearly satisfied. "Knew it!" A grin flies my way as he steers the car around a last bend. Then, with a jolt, he brings it to a standstill and turns to me. "May I present: the racetrack of Saint Cloud!"

Slowly, I turn my head, glance out of the window, then back at him. "The racetrack…?" I repeat, skeptical.

"Racetrack", he nods eagerly, "for horses."

"Alright then…" I murmur, shaking my head slightly.

For a moment he manages to keep a straight face, then bursts out laughing. "You should have seen your face, Sister!" he exclaims, clearly amused.

"I can imagine," I retort drily. "Anyhow, do you want to explain why we ended up at a racetrack, of all places?"

He shrugs, still grinning widely. "Because the French considered it a good place to build a hospital. They even temporarily suspended the horses races for us, so, instead of a noble thoroughbred, you are more likely to run into a _poilu._ "

"Poilu?" I ask, raising both eyebrows.

Readily, he answers, "A French soldier. This might be a Canadian-run hospital, but it has been turned over to the French army. Personnel is Canadian, patients are French-the whole lot of them."

Slowly, I nod, still considering the nickname of _poilu_. "What does it mean? Poilu? I feel like I should know this and yet…" I trail off.

"No problem, Sister", he quickly reassures. "A _poilu_ is someone very hairy. They don't shave much, the French. You see?"

"I do see," I confirm, laughing, which earns me another grin from him.

Then, quite suddenly, he jumps out of the car, runs around to my side and before I even have time to move, comes to a halt next to my door and opens it forcefully.

"Welcome to No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Sister Blythe", he exclaims, puffing out his chest, and hinting at a bow.

"Jokester", I murmur. Still, I gratefully take the offered hand and exit the car myself. The moment my feet touch stable ground, his hand is gone and he busies himself with my luggage. Yet more seconds later, it is piled up next to the car.

Pointing towards a group of building, he explains, "I have to take care of the car, so I can't show you the way. You should be fine anyway, it's not far. Just go there and turn left over there and that should lead you to the matron's office. If you get lost, just ask whoever. We're all quite eager to assist a pretty nurse in distress around here." His grin is back, as are the waggling eyebrows.

"This I don't doubt." I have a feeling he is being somewhat too forward, but he's amusing all the same and anyway… he's just a boy, not much older than nineteen, and he's in uniform. Who can blame him for a bit of cheek?

Well, apart from the army. On principle.

I raise my hand to wave at him and am rewarded with two frantically flapping hands in return. Smiling to myself at his antics, I bent down to pick up my luggage. It's sparse enough for me to be able to carry it on my own, not being forced to adopt a 'pretty nurse in distress' act. And anyway, two months of heaving around tall, well-nourished soldiers have had quite a positive effect on my strength.

After walking a couple of steps, I abruptly stop and turn. "What's your name?" I ask.

The orderly, already bent to inspect the car, looks up. "What did you say, Sister?"

"I asked for your name. I don't remember you telling me," I repeat.

At this, he straightens, his back suddenly ramrod straight. "Private Borel, at your service, Sister!" he almost shouts, raising a hand in salute and even clicking his heels.

Then, quite as suddenly, he relaxes into a slouch, grinning broadly. "Or just Maurice. Most people call me Maurice."

"Maurice it is," I nod. "And I do hope we will run into each other from time to time, Maurice."

"So do I, Sister," Maurice concurs.

I give him a last smile, earning another salute in the process – far limper than the first one. Then, finally, I turn back, hoist up my luggage and go in search of the matron's office.

As I walk over the racetrack's grounds, I silently take note of its layout. Upon closer inspection, it does resemble as hospital, even if features of its original use are still in evidence. I have to admit to being a bit nervous to meet the matron. As far as we nurses are concerned, the matron might as well be God, judging from the power she holds over us. It's the first thing any student nurse is taught – or learns at her peril: never ever do you displease the matron, for she is the one capable of making your life pretty miserable.

Truly nice matrons have long been declared to be a thing of myths and stories by nurses far more experienced than I. We are generally quite satisfied to have a matron who is matter-of-fact and pragmatic and refrains from meddling too much, for meddling usually results in ward inspections and following that, three-day long cleaning spells.

So it's with a little unease that I finally raise my hand to knock at this matron's office. A few well-calculated seconds pass, my hand hanging uselessly in the air, before a curt voice calls, "Come in!"

Carefully opening the door, I step inside. I place my luggage in a corner, before closing the door, taking care not to make a sound. Only then do I straighten to look at the matron. She eyes me impassively.

"Mademoiselle Blythe," she declares. There's no question in the way she says my name. She knows who I am and likely has a fair amount of further information, the likes of which I will never even know.

"Good day, Madame," I greet cautiously. I am still on my feet, standing in the middle of the room, desperately trying to think of something to do with my hands. I end up interlocking my fingers, but feel hardly calmer for it.

More seconds pass, accompanied by what is clearly an inspection. At last, the order, "Sit down." With a curt nod, she indicates a chair standing across from her. I sit on the edge of it, keeping my back straight, trying to appear calm at the very least, even if my nerves are all a-flutter.

"We are a French-Canadian unit," she informs me without so much as an introduction. "The aim is to rely solely on French-Canadian personnel, but once in a while, a shortage forces us to draw on English-speaking doctors and nurses."

She pauses and I hasten to nod, both to reassure her that yes, I am listening, and yes, I have understood.

Without an outward reaction, she continues, "At this hospital, French is spoken. I explicitly asked for a French-speaking nurse."

She considers me through narrowed eyes. It takes me a moment too long to recognize this as an indirect question, calling for my participation in this conversation. "I do speak French, Madame," I quickly assert, redundant as this may seem, considering she has been speaking French this entire time.

To be quite honest, my ability to speak French might be my main reason for being here. I am a decent nurse, and for all I don't know yet, I'm a fast learner. But there are better and more experienced nurses in England, waiting to be sent to France, and there's absolutely no reason to pick me over them – except for my French. Because it might not be so very difficult to find a French-Canadian who, out of sheer necessity, has learned to converse in English, but the reverse is not all that common.

The matron clears her throat loudly, recalling my attention. "This hospital has been turned over to the French Army, but we also care for local civilians. We are a Class A hospital, meaning we only receive serious surgical cases. We do not have a medical ward."

So, wounded again. I am almost disappointed to hear that. I might have been glad to be posted to a surgical ward initially, but it would have been nice to be able to get another perspective. Measles and pneumonia might not be a picnic either, but I suspect these patients of being less inclined to follow me into my nightmares than those without legs or with a stomach torn open by shrapnel.

"We have 520 beds, but at the moment, we are not filled to capacity," the matrons continues. If she notices my surprise at hearing this, she doesn't show.

I mean, on one hand, it makes sense that the fighting still raging along the Somme front would not be felt in a hospital for French soldiers, because the Somme battles are predominately a British operation. But the French have been fighting at Verdun for a good eight months now – just last week there were reports of them having taken back Fort Douaumont – and casualties there must be comparable to those at the Somme, from what I've gleaned from newspaper articles. I would have anticipated French hospitals to be quite busy as well, and yet apparently, this one is half-empty. Maybe it's because only very serious cases are sent here? Or do the French, ultimately, not quite trust us Canadian savages and only send us those patients they simply cannot care for themselves, not by any stretch of imagination?

The matron rises abruptly. Her chair scrapes over the floor, making me flinch. "Come with me," she orders curtly, not giving away quite where I am supposed to follow her. Quickly, she strides towards the door and I have to hurry to collect my luggage and fall into step behind here before she disappears around the next corner.

She walks at a good pace, passing the old racetrack and a collection of newer huts, probably erected specifically for the hospital. As she walks by the wards without even acknowledging them, I come to suspect that she intends to show me my dorm, but I do not dare ask. She's the type of matron for whom every other word is a word too much and every word too much is simply foolish.

Apparently though, there are people in this hospital less cowed by this then I am, because suddenly a man stands in our way, almost appearing out of thin air. A doctor, judging from his uniform.

"You!" he exclaims and for a second there, I am terrified he might be talking to me. But he doesn't even seem to have noticed my presence. His eyes are firmly fixed on the matron.

"Doctor MacIver," she acknowledges. Her voice is strained and I can feel the distaste radiating off of her in waves.

"I need a different nurse," he announces bluntly. I don't know whether he does not notice or simply does not care that she clearly is not interested in talking to him, but at first glance, he doesn't seem to be the type of person much inclined to burden himself with the emotional wellbeing of others.

The matron sighs noiselessly before she replies, evidently reaching for a calm tone to her voice, "I assure you that Mademoiselle Gagné is an exemplary theatre nurse. She has a lot of experience and her qualification is beyond dispute. Personally, I –"

She doesn't get any further. With an abrupt movement of his hand, he silences her. "Be that as it may, but your Mademoiselle Gagné speaks less English than my great-aunt Aggie's parrot. Nasty beast. Simply won't die."

I wonder whether he's talking about the parrot or great-aunt Aggie? Either way, Jem'll love this.

I bite back a smile, because the very last thing I want is to arouse the attention of either matron or doctor. Unconsciously I have realized that both of them would be formidable opponents and, in the interest of my own peace and quiet, it may just be preferable to remain invisible for the foreseeable future.

"Well, we are a French-Canadian unit and we speak French in this hospital," the matron remarks primly. Only now do I realize that this entire conversation has been in English.

Impatiently, the doctor retorts, "I am not French, and thank the devil for that! And when a patient is bleeding dry on my table, I don't have the sodding time to try and remember what haemostatic forceps are called in your ruddy French!"

‚Pince hémostatique,' my brain translates uninvited, but I am not going to say that aloud, that's for certain! To make sure, I bite down on my tongue.

Not that it's of any use. Before the matron has had a chance to reply, the doctor suddenly moves his gaze over to me.

"You! Do you speak English?" he demands to know.

I suppose this is what it feels like at the top of the Tower of Babel.

A short glance in the direction of the matron shows her to be eyeing me in return, a deep frown evident between her eyes. The doctor's narrowed eyes, however, demand a reply. "Yes, Sir," I answer quickly, before working at becoming part of the scenery again.

No good. His gaze remains still firmly fixed upon me. I've never seen any human – living, that is – blink as seldom as him.

"Ever seen an operation theatre from the inside?" he continues his inquisition.

I can almost hear the matron's thoughts, whirring around in her head, desperately wanting to get out. But with the steely resolve of many a matron since the advent of medical care, she keeps her lips pressed together, the only outward sign of her disapproval.

"Well…" I say, before hesitating. During my last months at the training hospital in Montreal I was allowed to assist with operations several times and in the past few weeks, under the tutelage of Miss Talbot, I have worked in the operating theatre in Taplow, yet I am anything but an experienced theatre nurse!

"Yes? Tell!" the doctor urges, clearly getting impatient.

"I have some experience," I decide to answer at last, "but I'm no trained theatre nurse."

Brusquely, he brushes this aside. "No matter. I'll teach you. As long as you speak a civilized language, you and I will get along ruddy fine."

At this, even all her steely resolve cannot help the matron anymore. "You wouldn't…?" she starts.

Not that he'd let her speak her mind this time. "Yes, I will. Her over there, she's my new theatre nurse. She starts tomorrow." His tone defies anyone to contradict him, even a seasoned matron.

Though, had anyone attempted to voice objection, they wouldn't have gotten far, at any rate. Without another word the doctor turns on his heel and rushes of. The matron and I are left to gaze at his retreating form.

Then, abruptly, she turns to me. Earlier, she considered me with skepticism, but now disapproval is written plainly across her features. Now, I am not conscious of having done anything wrong in this entire situation – I merely answered truthfully any question posed in my direction – yet I instinctively lower my head at little.

"Well, you'll see where that will get you!" she announces curtly and I have nothing to say in response. I am perfectly sure that my life as a mere ward sister would have been altogether much easier than working in Doctor MacIver's theatre.

Without another word the matron turns and strides across the grounds. I hurry to pick up my luggage, that has threatening to stretch my arms for a while now, and follow her. Only once we have reached a couple of tents, grouped together, does the matron suddenly come to a halt. She throws back the cover of one particular tent, revealing a sparse interior of two beds and a ramshackle table.

"You will sleep here. Your roommate is still on leave," she informs me. "You may spend today as you wish. Your first shift starts tomorrow morning."

I have to hand it to her – she denies herself a swipe at _where_ I will undertake my shift. Instead, she turns without another word, hurrying along the corridor created by the tents. I am left with little choice but to call a "thank you, Ma'am" after her retreating form, even as I am completely sure that she disapproves of raised voices as well.

With a shrug I turn to my new accommodations. One side looks occupied, obviously belonging to my leave-taking roommate, so I place my luggage next to the other bed and let myself fall on top of it. Gazing at the tent's ceiling, I replay today's happenings before my inner eye.

Maybe it only proves to show how incorrigible I am, that, at the memory of it all, an uncontrollable giggle rises in my throat. Because of that cheeky little orderly and that oh so prim matron and that doctor respecting nothing and no-one. And because of the curious fact that while my French enabled me to come here in the first place, it was my English that managed to throw open the doors to an operating theatre for me.

Let no one say, ever again, there's nothing to be gained from learning to speak a foreign language. Except for Latin and Greek, naturally. For I don't think there's a word for 'haemostatic forceps' in Latin _or_ Greek!

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Mademoiselle from Armentières from the 19_ _th_ _century (source unknown)._


	10. And things look blue

_November 10_ _th_ _, 1916_ **  
** _No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France_

 **And things look blue**

"It is essential to leave enough skin," Dr MacIver explains, his voice as steady as the scalpel in his hand, positioned a little below the patient's knee. In one circular motion he cuts through the skin.

"Enough skin," I repeat with a nod, watching him carefully detach the different layers of skin from the underlying muscles. Once he is finished, I take the scalpel he holds up to me without once taking his eyes off of the patient in front of us. For Dr MacIver might be a man of few manners and much obstinacy – stubborn enough to steadfastly refuse to operate with an assistant, at any rate – and he swears _decidedly_ too often, but in the theatre he is never anything but fully concentrated on his work.

And he is a man of his word. He promised to teach me what I need to know, and he did. The hours I spend next to him in the operating theatre are veritable lessons for me. Admittedly, I have managed to incur his wrath more than once in the past few days, but never for not knowing something. He does not suffer fools, Dr MacIver, and he hates having to explain something twice. It's only when I still don't know what to do after him having explained it, that the curses descend unto me.

Right now, though, he is calm and concentrated as he lifts the flap of skin and folds it back over the patient's knee. It bleeds less than one might expect, thanks to a tourniquet tied firmly around the thigh.

"Knife," demands Dr MacIver and I hand him the requested instrument. As a theatre nurse my tasks not only include assisting during the actual operation, but also the preparation of the theatre and all instruments, including disinfection. It's up me to make sure that everything is in the right place and aseptically clean.

With a steady hand, Dr MacIver severs muscles and tendons. "The French use guillotines for amputations," he informs me while working, "god-damned guillotines! Barbarians, the lot of them! The just want it to be as quick as possible, when an amputation is actually a form of art, I am telling you. Every operation is _art_!"

Whether I share his use of expression, I am not entirely sure, but I am willing to admit that every operation demands great dexterity of the surgeon. Artists they may not be, strictly speaking, but the work they do is akin to fine mechanics and the outcome is, if everything goes well, a life saved.

Maybe it really _is_ art after all.

Skilfully Dr MacIver applies his knife to the soft tissues, finally exposing the bone. Not looking at me, he waves the knife in my general direction and, cautiously, I take it from him, pressing the bone saw in his waiting hand instead. The orderly, standing on the other side of the table, reaches across it, holding up the flaps of skin and meat and muscle out of the saw's reach.

I am not entirely sure whether the sawing of bones really does sound differently from the sawing of, say, wood, or if that's just down to the fact that you _know_ it to be bone, but it is excruciating in any case. A sound to make it drip down one's spine, all cold and tingling.

Instinctively, I raise my shoulders, draw in the head. My gaze meets that of the anaesthetist, standing next to the patient's head, and he gives me a reassuring smile. But only once Dr MacIver raises the bone saw, making the sound break off abruptly, does the strain leave my shoulders. There are things in life one simply does not get used to.

The freshly amputated leg lies on the operating table and, somehow, does not look at all like something that was a body part only moment ago. To be honest, I am a little grateful it falls to the orderly to get rid of it. Bodiless legs tend to make me feel uncomfortable.

Drawing my gaze away, I exchange the saw for the bone-cutting forceps Dr MacIver uses to remove protruding pieces of bone. "Tibia. Tends to splinter easily," he comments while working.

Having returned the forceps to me, he bends over the stump he has just created and inspects it with a critical eye. "Suture," he demands. Having anticipated this request, I hand him a curved needle with a silk thread of suture already attached. Next, I take up two spatulas, using them to hold apart the tissue, the easier for Dr MacIver to reach the arteries and suture them.

Finally, the flaps of skin are stitched up over the stump, neatly explaining the need to "leave enough skin". While doing so, we secure a tube so as to enable the wound fluid to leave the wound until it is more healed. Likely, this won't be the last operation this patient will have to suffer through, but for the time being, things are looking satisfactory, I'd say.

"A good stump," Dr MacIver exclaims, clearly pleased, and thus confirming my assessment of the situation. "A good, tidy stump. Even the French should be able to fit prosthesis with a stump like that."

On the whole, his opinion of the French is… ah, somewhat critical.

Forcefully he turns, not waiting for a reply, and strides off. Instead, I turn to the anaesthesiologist. "When do you suppose he will wake up, Dr Thomas?"

His answer can only ever be an estimate, I know. Anaesthetics make every operation that much easier – not least for the patient who sleeps through all of it – but their administration is a highly complex process. It's difficult to decide beforehand what dosage every individual patient needs and therefore it is not unusual for them to keep sleeping for quite a while after the operation is finished. This, though, is vastly preferable to the opposite outcome, when patients become conscious during an ongoing operation, which is so unpleasant for everyone involved, I much prefer them to sleep a little longer.

Just as Dr Thomas starts to answer, a voice carries over to us from the other side of the room. Dr MacIver. The satisfaction he felt over an operation well done has, apparently, vanished, to be replaced by clear irritation. Probably the French again. Out of the corner of my eye I see Dr Thomas raise an eyebrow and fight back a smile myself.

"Look! Look!" Dr MacIver demands, crossing the room with large steps. "An ingrown toenail! All this because of an ingrown _toenail_! It's a right disgrace!"

He pushes something at me and it takes a second or three until my brain allows me to recognize this _something_ as the amputated leg. When I do, the floor beneath my feet suddenly feels strangely mobile.

Not that Dr MacIver is one to take note of my sensitivities. Shaking the leg slightly, he calls out, "Here, look! He had an ingrown toenail – a goddamned ingrown toenail! And instead of _doing_ something against it, they wait until it gets infected and now the poor devil is less one leg. A disgrace, I am telling you! Bloody French!"

The more rational part in me wonders why he gets worked up about this only now. Surely he must have known the reason for the amputation beforehand? But maybe it's simply not given to him to miss an opportunity to curse the "bloody French." Really, whoever thought it a good idea to post _this_ man to _this_ hospital must have had his tea spiked!

The more irrational part in me only wants him to take the leg away.

He, of course, does not do me the favour. Instead he pushes the leg a little closer still, peers at me from those unblinking eyes.

"What happened?" I ask, voice weak.

The question, however, seems to have been the right one, for MacIver begins shaking the leg accusingly. "It got infected, that's what happened! We _could_ have simply pulled the toe nail and he would have been on his way right as rain – on both legs! But no, they keep him in those cursed trenches for weeks, standing up to his knees in water and slush. No _wonder_ it got infected, and this is the outcome!" Another shake of the leg.

"Trench foot," I mutter, having just thought of the correct term.

A vigorous nod from Dr MacIver. "Too right! One of the most easily preventable ailments in this easily preventable war. But they can't look out for their soldiers, can they? Goddamned French!" He's basically growling by now.

Now, I could tell him that trench foot is as prevalent in Imperial hospitals as it is here and that, according to Shirley, the English and Canadian armies are just as relentless about letting their soldiers endure the mud as the French seem to be. I _could_. It's just that the only thing I want right now is for him _to take that leg away_ and the world to be still once more and the quickest way to achieve that is to keep this whole conversation as short as possible.

Fortunately, Dr MacIver apparently considers his newest lesson learned by now, because he turns abruptly and sweeps through the theatre. Walking, he thrusts the leg at the smirking orderly and I might be a little pleased to see the smirk drop from his face faster than you can say _schadenfreude_. Holding the leg with outstretched arms, he hurries to follow Dr MacIver from the room, the faster to get rid of the leg.

For a moment or two I look after them, keep my gaze fixed on the door and wait for it to stop moving from side to side. In over three years of nursing, I've seen my share of, well, _things_ , and even more of them in the past few months, but I would gladly have eschewed a closer look at that sawed-off, dead leg.

"Head between your knees. That'll help," a kind voice instructs.

I turn, quickly, to face Dr Thomas, whose presence I had almost forgotten. He watches me, all calm and friendliness, as he is always calm and friendly. Dr Thomas might just be one of the most tranquil people I have ever met.

"I'll take your word for it," I answer weakly and try to produce a smile.

In turn, I receive an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Happens to the best of us. No shame in it, really," he comforts, "it's only bad when it stops bothering you at all."

I nod, despite not being able to even imagine there might come a day when any of this won't bother me anymore.

Dr Thomas takes the patient's pulse and breath frequency one last time, directs a kind nod in my direction, then strolls out of the room as well. That just leaves me with the sleeping patient, who has been rid of his ingrown toenails but has lost a lower leg in the process.

Actually, Dr MacIver is quite right. It _is_ a disgrace!

"What did he say? Head between the knees?" I ask of the sleeping patient. Naturally, my question remains unanswered, but instead, Dr Thomas' advice turns out pretty useful. After sitting still for a few minutes, head bend low, I start to feel a little better – at least as long as I manage to discipline my thoughts and keep them far away from sawed-off legs!

"Alright, let's get you moving then," I murmur, half to myself and half to the patient, after having risen again.

I organize two orderlies, instructing them to help me move to patient to the post-op ward. I was with him when he was prepared for operation and I will be with him when he wakes up. This, too, is part of the duties of a theatre nurse. From a strictly medical viewpoint it makes sense for someone to keep an eye on the patient during the whole process, the faster to recognize changes in his condition. A side benefit, not to be underestimated, is that the patient will see the same face waking up as when falling asleep, which usually calms them a whole lot.

So I stay with my patient, watching him slowly regain consciousness, and when I transfer him to the night sister's care at the end of my shift, I am satisfied he's quite well, all things considered.

"I'll be back tomorrow to look after you, alright?" I reassure him, knowing how reluctant he is to let me leave. But it's been a long day, I am suitably tired – it can be surprisingly exhausting just to stand on your feet for couple of hours – and nothing save for an emergency will keep me from my bed just about now.

Shuffling back to my tent, I wonder idly what the matron would have to say about my bad posture. Quite a lot, probably, more so as she has not yet forgiven me for being made theatre nurse, inadvertently as it might have been. However, my tiredness beating out my fear of her, I don't attempt to raise my dragging feet any higher.

As I raise the tent's cover, I am overcome by a yawn and thus, it takes me a moment to notice the other person standing next to the rickety desk, just now turning to look at me. With a jolt, I am wide awake.

Looks like my roommate is back from leave.

For a second or two we just stand there, appraising each other. She makes no move to greet me, so finally I step forward, extend a hand. "Hello. You must be Colette."

"Colette Tremblay." My offered hand she simply ignores.

"I am…" I start, not getting very far though. My hand hangs in the air between us, useless.

"I know who you are," she interrupts harshly, "you're the English girl who took Louise's place in the theatre."

Slowly, I draw back my hand.

"I didn't mean to…" I try again.

A quick movement of her hand lets me fall silent. "Oh, but _of course_ you didn't mean to! Just been in the right place at the right time, yes?" Her voice drips with sarcasm.

I nod, the tiniest of movements. That's exactly what happened after all. But with a huff, she merely turns back around.

"I asked them to put you in a different tent, but they're all occupied," she informs me over her shoulder, "so, I am stuck with you. Be so kind as to never speak to me again, yes?"

It's a question hardly asking for an answer, so I don't bother. Instead, I walk over to my bed, silent, and make sure not to look at my roommate again. She, similarly, does not turn to me again.

As I strip off my uniform, my head tries to make sense of the conversation I've just had. I didn't expect us to be the best of friends right away, merely because fate – or the diseased lungs of my predecessor – put us in the same tent, but… to be met with such, well, _hostility_ I did not expect either.

Yes, I replaced Louise Gagné in Dr MacIver's operating theatre – though I still maintain none of this was actually my fault. And yes, I am an 'English girl', at least inasmuch as I am not French-Canadian. But good god – is that really quite so horrible?

Impatiently I pull at an obstinate button that refuses to fit through its hole, only to result in tearing it loose from my uniform. With a silent sigh I stare down at the button on my open hand. I'll have to sew it back on tomorrow, which, having never been altogether very enthused by needlework, is an irritating prospect. Somehow, this day simply cannot end fast enough.

Climbing into my camp bed, I risk a short glance in the direction of Colette. She has already laid down, having her back resolutely turned to me. I scrutinize the back of her head, in the vain hope of finding an explanation for her strange behaviour. No such luck, of course.

Shaking my own head slightly, I extinguish the lamp hanging next to my bed, letting darkness fall.

Truth is, I am disappointed. I didn't expect to meet a best friend, but… well, a _friend_ would have been nice. I had to leave Polly and Betty in England and only now, not having them around anymore, have I noticed how much easier they made things for me. Because they used to laugh and rant with me and comforted me when I didn't feel well. Somehow, I expected that to always be the case – a natural form of companionship, built upon shared work.

Foolish, probably. Certainly naïve.

Generally speaking, the other nurses of Saint-Cloud have not met me with the same hostility Colette has just shown – though Louise Gagné has a dirty look for me whenever I dare to venture too close to her – but they definitely do not exude the same warmth Betty and Polly have in spades. I've been the first new nurse to be put in their midst for a while now and they simply have no use for me, I think. Their friendships are already forged, their social dynamics secure. I fit nowhere and why should they make the effort to _make_ me fit in?

The hardest part is not having anyone to talk to. Someone to tell how I worry for them. For Shirley, exposed to frost and shells at the front. For Walter, still caught up in the claws of that horrible fever. For Jem, stuck in disease-ridden Greece. For my parents, who are not getting any younger and who might yet pay a higher tribute to this war than I can fathom.

And for Nan, to whom I've yet to write the truth about Jerry. I scattered some hints throughout my letters, tried to calm her, but every time I try to put the truth to paper, my head is bare of any words. Maybe there are no words for this or maybe I am just unable to find them? In the end, I compromised with myself, deciding to wait until I have seen him with my own two eyes, because only then can I be sure of his true condition. Sounds reasonable, doesn't it? Only, once I stop lying to myself, I have to admit it's really only cowardice.

I don't dare tell her, so I don't. It's as simple as that. That's neither very brave nor very honest and while I've never counted honesty among my particular virtues, I've always considered myself to be fairly brave. But, I reckon, we are all brave until bravery is truly required of us.

Shivering, I pull the covers closer. November is nearly half gone and the nights are icy. It promises to be a long, hard winter and I can't say that particular realization does anything to lift my mood.

Because, for how badly I wanted to come to France, those not quite two weeks have already started to gnaw at me. I miss home, _my family_ , in a way I never used to back in England. Sometimes, in very dark moments, I even catch myself wondering whether it was really such a great idea to come here.

And, I guess, I counted on the dark moments to become lighter once my unknown roommate returned. Once I wasn't so alone anymore. Now though, in this dark, icy tent, listening to Colette's uneven breaths, I realize I've never felt lonelier in my life.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'If your were the only girl in the world' from 1916 (lyrics by Clifford Grey, music by Nat D. Ayer)._


	11. The sacred call

_November 17th, 1916  
No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France_

 **The sacred call**

Whoever said the dead look as though they were sleeping had no idea what they were talking about.

There's how pale they are, unnaturally so, and how sunken in, as if the body is not quite able to hold its form in death. And there's that absolute stillness. No-one is ever completely still, not even during the deepest of sleeps. Only a corpse can ever be truly still.

I stare down at the boy and part of me desperately hopes he might move yet. Just the tiniest bit of movement would be enough. A flutter of the eyelids, a twitch of the mouth, a tremble of the hand. It doesn't have to be much, really. One movement, and I'd be satisfied.

But he's stubborn in his stillness.

Frustrated, almost angry, I pull the sheets back over his motionless face. If _this_ is he how wants it to be…

"We can't save them all," a voice comes from my right. A hand extends to clumsily pat my shoulder.

Reluctantly, I turn to face Dr MacIver. "But we should be able to save them!" I argue. I know I'm being obstinate, and I know we really can't save them all, but I don't want to admit it. And to hear him say it, this brilliant surgeon, makes it even worse.

"In a perfect world, it would not be necessary for us to save them, Miss Blythe," is his calm reply, "but our world has never been further from being perfect. We can only work with what we are given and try to make the best of it. And so we'll do everything we can to save them all, even knowing we will not always succeed."

He looks at me, with the strange, unblinking gaze I know so well and that still never fails to unnerve me. Hesitantly, reluctantly, I nod.

"We've done all we could to save him. The rest isn't up to us," he continues, patting my shoulder a second time. For all he is so skilled with knife and scalpel, his attempts at human interaction never fail to be awkward and a little clumsy. Still, I am grateful for his effort to try and comfort me.

"Who is it up to, then? God?" I raise my eyebrows at him. The question, though, is not meant as rebellious as it probably sounded. I honestly would like to know whether all this is _in the lap of the gods_ , as they say. Maybe I wish for someone to tell me it really is.

Dr MacIver, however, will not be the one. He's already shaking his head. "God has long since turned his back on this world. The fate of these boys is up to the French high command alone. Though, from their view-point, General Joffre might as well be God, so maybe it's really all the same."

I have nothing to offer in reply, for I hardly know anything about Joffre and what I once was sure to know about God, I have long started doubting. So, I turn back to the dead boy under his sheets, stubbornly refusing to move, and silently curse Joffre, God, or whoever might be responsible for his death.

"You should go now. It's been a long day, for all of us," Dr MacIver encourages with another pat of my shoulder. I look up, see two orderlies loiter near the door, likely waiting for us to leave so they can lay out the body. It seems unfair to leave them waiting any longer and yet it is only with extreme reluctance I allow the doctor to lead me away from the still boy.

He accompanies me all the way to my tent, as if to make sure I won't attempt anything foolish. "Go to sleep now. Tomorrow is another day with another patient we'll try to save," he promises as he formally extends a hand for me to shake.

I gaze after him for a moment or two, as he walks between the tents with his long, uneven strides, and consider his words. I did not miss the way he phrased them. It can only ever be a try, right? Often, we succeed. Sometimes, we don't. But we never know what the next day may bring – victory over death itself or another victim in this endless reign of the dying.

Sighing softly, I enter the tent, praying my roommate will be out. If there's one thing I cannot bear right now it's her throwing me dirty looks and hissing at me for no apparent reason. There are days to suffer such a treatment and today is not one of them.

But fate – God? _Joffre_? – does not look altogether very kindly upon me, apparently. Immediately my eyes find Colette, lying on her bed and reading a letter. As she hears me enter, she looks up.

In the fraction of a second, her face falls. She makes sure to glare at me, before turning around to face the canvas wall on her right.

I am left standing in the middle of the tent, not quite as still as the dead boy under the sheets, and can almost feel something inside me – well, what? Break? Burst? Give way to a tension I can no longer bear, at any rate.

"Just _what_ is your problem?" I ask harshly. The words nearly surprise me myself. I wasn't aware I was going to say them until I did.

She, too, is surprised, chiefly evident in the fact that she actually sits up and turns to face me. Usually, she does her utmost to ignore me, but apparently, she's forgotten this now.

"I have no problem at all," she informs me primly. She moves to turn away from me just as I take a step forward, close my fingers around her arm, holding her there.

"Yes, you do have a problem – with me, apparently. And I can't tell you how _sick_ I am of it!" My voice is little more than a hiss now.

Colette is over her surprise by now, reclaiming her arm with a sharp tug. Her eyes are mere slits. "I am not required to like you!" Abruptly, she rises to her feet, so that we are nose to nose.

I can feel my own eyes narrow. "No, you don't have to like me. But you have no right to hate me either. Not when I've never done anything to warrant such a hate!"

"You took Louise's…" she starts, but I don't let her finish.

"Louise!" I practically snarl, "don't you dare make this about Louise! What's she to you? You don't even like her!"

I know immediately she wants to contradict me. She opens her mouth, moves to speak – only to shut it with a soft clank as her teeth meet. Instead, she glares at me, as viciously as she can manage, because I am right and we both know it. She really doesn't like Louise. She doesn't like very many people in this hospital, to be honest.

"This isn't about Louise or who's on duty as theatre nurse. And this isn't about me having learned French from teachers instead of my parent either. Because, for it to be about that, you'd have to be more narrow-minded than I thought anyone could possibly be," I inform her coolly, standing up that bit straighter, making use of our height difference to look down at her.

It's evident how much she hates being looked down upon. She throws her head back, her chin pushing forward, as she hisses, "This is none of your business!"

"On the contrary. It – whatever _it_ may be – is definitely my business as long as you use it as an excuse to treat me like the Kaiser's bastard child!" I argue.

She makes attempts at speaking, but I cut across her, "And I am not at all interested in what you have to say right about now!"

With which I turn on my heel, swiping angrily at the tent's cover as I leave. It is only once I am outside that I halt, and only now do I notice that my heart is beating fast and my cheeks feel heated. To be honest, I'm not really the type to spoil for a fight. I have five older siblings – it was an early lesson to learn that fights cannot be won by confrontation when you are the smallest of the bunch. I didn't stand any chance and so I had to learn other ways to deal. So all in all, I never got much practice when it came to fighting.

Yet, somehow… somehow, I reached my limit, just there in the tent. I devoted my day to the fight for the dead boy's life, only to have to give up fighting in the end. To be confronted with Colette's inexplicable hatred immediately after losing the boy… I've endured her glares for a week, but today, it was more than I could bear.

Shaking my head slightly, I start walking. At least I didn't have time to take off my coat before we launched into one another earlier. Small mercies, maybe, but she hospital grounds have been covered in a thick blanket of snow for a few days now, and the air is freezing.

There used to be a time when I loved snow. Back then, _snow_ meant ice skating and sledding competitions and snowmen with carrot noses. Now, it only means shivering patients and chilblains and the 'flu. Even snow, apparently, has turned into something to be seen through the eyes of a nurse. Almost without my noticing, my world has shrunk, to encompass nothing but this hospital and this _war_.

Aimlessly, I plod through the newly-fallen snow the orderlies have not yet had time to clear away. I have no idea where I'm headed, and my nose, having been frozen solid after a mere minute, would certainly like me to go back to the tent, heated by a small stove in a corner to be merely 'cold' instead of 'freezing'. Not that my pride would ever let that happen. It'll sooner do without a nose than go back!

"What's the matter with your nose?" a curious voice interrupts my thoughts.

Startled, I turn around. Standing there, propped up on a shovel, is Maurice Borel, grinning sheepishly. "My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's quite alright," I reassure him.

Maurice nods, eyeing me curiously. "Well, what about your nose, then?" he persists, making a funny face for my benefit.

Quite in spite of myself, I find myself chuckling at his antics. "Nothing, really. Or, maybe there is. It's cold, the nose." I give shrug to indicate that the nose is just going to have to suck it up, after all.

"Why don't you go back inside, then?" Maurice enquires.

For a moment, I ponder whether to rebuff him, tell him some kind of tale, but trying to think of one, I come up empty-handed. And, did I not desperately wish for someone to talk to? If the choice is between Maurice and Dr MacIver, I can probably expect more solace from the former.

So, I answer. "We lost a patient today, during an operation. We worked for hours, trying to save him, but in the end… it wasn't enough."

Maurice grimaces. "So I've heard. Was he the first one you lost?"

"Not the first one, no. Not by far. But he was the first whose life I… well, fought for, I guess." Helplessly, I raise my shoulders, let them fall again.

He nods, thoughtful. "Yes, I think I understand. It's bad enough when they die, but when you can't save them, it's worse, right?"

It could not have put it more aptly.

For the first time, I wonder how many patients have died in Maurice's ambulance, long before ever reaching this hospital. I think of asking, but how fair would it be to stir up his pain just to distract me from my own?

"He haemorrhaged. Just… _bled dry_. I didn't know how much blood there is in one body." A laugh escapes my lips, an incredulous, slightly hysterical laugh, and as I listen to it, I realize I have to laugh so as not to cry.

Maybe Maurice, too, realizes this, because he does not look at me like I've gone mad, which I would otherwise expect him to do. Instead he quickly reaches out, squeezes my hand with his own, just for a second or two, before abruptly letting go again.

I manage a weak smile of thanks. The hysterical laugh I have caged, deep inside me, where it cannot frighten anyone, with some luck not even me.

"Do you still not want to go back inside?" Maurice asks cautiously. As I look at him, his eyes are concerned.

I shake my head, vehemently. "And listen to Colette hiss at me? Thanks a lot, but no. I just don't have the nerves to bear her right now."

"Colette? Colette Tremblay?" All of a sudden, Maurice's voice sounds decidedly squeaky.

Nodding, I direct a glare at the snow beneath. "We share a tent. She hates me, for whatever reason, and by _God_ does she make sure I know it."

Maurice shuffles his feet. He seems unsure, as if trying to decide whether to say what's on his mind or remain silent. In the end, he does speak, "You should not be too hard on her. She's not had it easy."

Surprised, I raise an eyebrow at him. "You know each other?" I enquire.

He grimaces and it is only with some hesitation that he answers, "It's more a case of me knowing _her_. Whether she knows I exist…" He trails off, and there's a hint of colour tinting his cheeks.

Oh. So _this_ is how the land lies.

The poor boy.

"If I may give you some advice – don't do that to yourself," I remark sympathetically, or so I hope.

It gets me another grimace from him. "You don't choose this, Sister," he points out. He's right, I guess. In my experience, we have a pitiful amount of influence over either death or love.

"Have you ever been in love with someone who doesn't know you exist?" He sounds dejected.

Even as I am shaking my head, an unbidden thought pushes to the forefront of my mind, of a fourteen-year-old girl crying her eyes out at night just because of her brother's friend calling her Spider. But that hardly counts, right? A foolish fancy, if that. Today, I know better.

"I'd like to say something comforting, right now, but can't think of anything, to be honest," I confess instead. "Maybe just that you're much better off without someone like Colette. But that's probably not very helpful, is it?"

Maurice shakes his head, but there's a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "If you really do want to help, Sister… well, do you think you might be able to find out if – if, maybe she _does_ know I exist after all?" He peers at me, suddenly shy.

I can't help a sigh. Of all the things…

"Judging from that fight we just had, I reckon you have better chances than I do of finding out about that, but I'll try my best, alright?" I promise, only to quickly caution, "I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you, though. I'd be more than a little surprised if she ever spoke to me again."

Which just goes to show how absolutely _wrong_ you can be.

For, when I do return to our shared tent a while later, I find Colette sitting on my bed, clearly waiting. The moment I enter, she rises, steps towards me and extends a hand.

Silently, I consider the hand, hanging in the air between us. Seconds pass, before Colette withdraws it. Taking a deep breath, she says, "I want to apologize for my behaviour."

There's something stilted about her words, making them sound rehearsed, and for a moment I am prepared to take umbrage, until I notice it's because she has spoken _English_. That explains the carefully prepared sentence, at the very least.

"Alright…" I respond, cautiously.

At this, words start tumbling out of her mouth, quite as if I have opened some hitherto unknown floodgates by mistake. She's back to speaking French, but for one thing, her English likely wouldn't have sufficed anyway and for another, French is a language easily given to passionate outbursts.

"I treated you horribly and that was very bad of me and I am so very sorry," she sputters. "You _have_ never done anything to make me hate you and I _don't_ like Louise and I do not care _at all_ where you learned to speak French! It's just that I was _so very_ angry and suddenly, you were standing in that tent and I wanted you not to be _you_ and so I was mean to you, even though it's not your fault at all, and I am a bad, _bad_ person and my aunt would be _so_ disappointed in me and –"

I raise a hand. "Stop."

Colette, in turn, covers her mouth with her own hand, falling silent in a flash.

"Too fast?" she whispers through her fingers.

I nod, still a little dumb-struck. In all my life, I've never heard someone talk quite as much in as short a time – not to mention the length of her sentences and her liberal use of italics (of which I used to be guilty of myself, not so long ago, but that's another story). And that's quite apart from the fact that only half of what she's said has made any sense to me at all.

Oh, and then there's the little detail of me feeling rather as if I've tumbled down a rabbit hole and woken up in the land of Cheshire Cats and Mad Hatters! Is this really still the same girl who was glaring at me so spectacularly not even an hour ago?

"Sit," I order, pointing to my bed, upon which she settles without protest. Her anxious, hopeful gaze remains fixed on my face.

Slowly, I sit down next to her, then give her a short nod. "And now, tell. From the beginning, so that I can understand."

Colette nods eagerly. She closes her eyes for a moment, probably to collect her thoughts, and when she speaks again, she's calmer. "Before you came, this bed belonged to Aimée. We met when our unit was mobilized in Montreal last year. We stood next to each other as our ship left the harbour and Aimée made some kind of joke, and from that moment on, we were inseparable. She was always joking, Aimée was. She was the only one to make all of this bearable to me."

She breaks off, takes a couple of deep breaths. I have a sense about how this story might end, but I remain silent, let Colette say whatever it is she has to say.

"This past summer, Aimée started coughing. We didn't think much of it in the beginning. Probably just a cold, right? But it got worse and worse. They ended up sending her to a hospital in Rouen and I thought they'd treat her and she'd get better, but… next thing I know, there's the message that she has to go to England for treatment. Matron gave me leave so I could accompany her."

A second time, Colette interrupts her own tale and this time around, it doesn't appear as if she's be able to continue it. Defiantly, almost angrily, she rubs her face, trying to wipe away the tears that have begun to fall.

"She didn't make it, did she?" I ask gently, despite being almost sure of the answer.

Colette moves her head to the side, just the tiniest of movements, but it is enough to confirm my inkling about Aimée's fate. She died in England then. Tuberculosis, maybe, or some other lung disease – what difference does it make, really?

"And you come back and find me," I continue for her, for she clearly isn't able to, "all happy-go-lucky and eager to make friends. _God_! I would have hated myself!"

She manages a watery smile in return. "I _so_ wanted her to be back. And then I punished you for not being her," she whispers.

Which makes complete sense, in a terribly sad kind of way.

"Can you forgive me for being so horrible to you?" Colette pleads, eyes wide and wet with tears.

I look at her for a moment, shake my head slowly. "I don't think there's anything to forgive."

And then, to my utmost surprise, two arms wrap themselves tightly around my neck and a tearstained face presses itself against my shoulder. Carefully, I put my own arm around Colette's form, gently stroke her hair and privately wonder whether, maybe, in the most unlikely of places, I might have found myself a friend.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' from 1914 (lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello)._

 _General Joffre is Joseph Jacques Césaire Joffre (1852-1931), a French general. From July 1911 to December 1916 he was the commander-in-chief of the French forces. After being removed from his post, he was made a 'Marshal of France', went to the US on a diplomatic mission, and was made a member of the_ Académie française _in 1919._


	12. Colinette with the sea-blue eyes

_December 8_ _th_ _, 1916  
No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France – Paris, France_

 **Colinette with the sea-blue eyes**

"What do we use as a local anaesthetic?" Dr Thomas asks, looking down at me attentively.

Slowly, I move my hand over a row of glass bottles, stopping at a tall brown one. Twice, I tap its lid. "Novocaine," I answer, "is injected into the specific body part for local anaesthesia."

Dr Thomas nods in confirmation. "Correct. Which other agent could be used instead?"

I narrow my eyes, searching my head for other local anaesthetics. "Benzocaine?" I finally suggest, not quite able to prevent my voice from rising at the end of the word.

A small smile tells me Dr Thomas has noticed, but he does not comment on it, merely nods instead. "Very good. Benzocaine is used similarly to Novocaine. Do you know another name for Novocaine then?"

This I do know. "Procaine," I answer quickly.

"Procaine indeed," confirms Dr Thomas. "Now, which agent would you use for a spinal anaesthesia?"

"Stovaine," I reply, tapping the lid of another bottle. "It's often given together with Strychnine, to constrict the blood vessels. Adrenaline can be added to prolong the anaesthetic effect."

"And why do we prefer to use Stovaine over Cocaine?" asks Dr Thomas.

I have to ponder this for a moment. Cocaine is a well-known anaesthetic and was widely used in the past, but has seen decreased usage in recent years due to its high toxicity. Thus, it is natural to assume that Stovaine is probably less toxic. "The fatal dose is higher than with Cocaine," I therefore decide to answer, "and… it's quicker to take effect?"

"Good guess", replies Dr Thomas, but there's a smile on his lips. The smile I offer in return is a little abashed, accompanied by a slight shrug. One can't remember everything, after all, especially not with this endless list of - _aines_.

"When is spinal anaesthesia indicated then?" is the next question directed at me.

It is, thankfully, a question I know the answer to. "When operating on the lower abdomen or the legs."

This time, I do not only get a confirming nod, but actual verbal praise, "Very good, well done. Now, about general anaesthesia – which anaesthetics do you know?"

At the very least, this new topic delivers me of the - _aines_. "Mainly chloroform and ether," I list. "For operations of shorter duration, chloroethane or nitrous oxide might be substituted."

"And how would you use ether, for example?" Dr Thomas continues questioning.

I take a moment to organize my thoughts, before replying, "Normally, I'd use the open-drop-method. To do that, I'd place a Schimmelbusch mask or a Ferguson mask over the patient's mouth, then cover it with gauze or flannel, on which I'd have the liquid ether drop during the operations. Alternatively, another anaesthetic could be used instead of the ether."

"Correct. It is actually often a good idea to combine chloroform and ether. First, you administer chloroform, to be followed a while later by ether. This way, the anaesthetic effect can be controlled far easier," Dr Thomas explains.

He is still talking when I pull out my little notebook and scribble down this newest information furiously. As I raise my head, I find Dr Thomas watching me, clearly amused – the small wrinkles around his eyes are all crinkled up.

"You really do take this very seriously," he observes.

I shrug, a little self-conscious. "If you're sacrificing your time to explain it to me, the least I can do is take is take it seriously. Besides, I really does interest me."

"And I'm glad it does. But for today, I'd say it's quite enough. Next time, I'll show you some other ways to administer general anaesthesia."

"What other ways are there?" I immediately enquire, craning my neck as if any of these new and unknown ways of administration might already be found inside his office.

"There's the Clover method, Shipway's vapour apparatus, and of course Loosley's inhalator", Dr Thomas lists. "But we'll learn about these another time. I have a feeling you're already being missed."

He nods towards the office's window and as I turn to look, I can see Colette on the other side, all bundled up. As she notices me, she raises an arm to wave excitedly. She is already hopping from one foot to the other, though whether because of impatience or that terrible cold, I do not know.

She's quite the character, Colette is.

Turning back to Dr Thomas, I concur, "Ah, you're right. Best not to let her wait any longer. Still, I'm very grateful for your taking the time to teach me all this."

"It's my pleasure. But now, out you go! _I_ don't want to incur the matron's wrath if Sister Tremblay loses a finger or two from waiting outside in the cold," he retorts with a smile and a conspirative wink.

Laughing, I reply, "No, indeed, we can't have that, can we?" I am already bundling myself into my heaviest winter coat. It's so dreadfully cold outside that you can't go outside without a coat on, not even for the shortest of walks.

The moment I step out of Dr Thomas' office, Colette pounces upon me – quite literally. Before I have a change to react, she has already wound a woollen scarf around my neck two or three times, and fixes it with a tight knot. It's covering half my face, but as I raise a hand to pull it downwards a little, she catches it and shoves a glove over my fingers instead.

"Colette?" I enquire helplessly through several layers of woollen scarf. "Are you feeling well?"

"Perfectly fine, thank you for asking," is her answer, but it is a distracted one, as she is completely concentrated on forcing a glove on my other hand as well. "Or, you know, apart from the fact that you've been in there for absolute _ages_. What did you two do in that office anyway?"

I manage to tuck free one hand, and pull the scarf away from my face, the better to answer her. "Dr Thomas is teaching me a couple of things about anaesthesia."

Frowning, Colette peers up at me. "Whatever for? It's not as if they're actually going to allow a _woman_ to administer anaesthetics," she says with a scoff.

Not that I can argue with her on that account. They certainly do not allow women anaesthetists in the army. "I think it's interesting," I answer instead, giving a little shrug that gets lots in my layers of clothing.

"And that's a good enough reason for someone like Dr Thomas to sacrifice his time to teach you? Because you _think it's interesting_?" She casts a dubious look at the window to Dr Thomas' office.

Had just about anybody else expressed similar doubt, I'd likely be quite insulted, but if I have learned just one thing about Colette in recent weeks, it's that she always, always speaks her mind, regardless of what's on it. And regardless of any consequences.

So it is in a fairly relaxed manner that I reply, "No, that's probably not a good enough reason, to be honest. But Dr MacIver thinks it's useful for a theatre nurse to understand a thing or two about anaesthesia."

"And it must happen, if old Alastair wants it so," nods Colette with an acrobatic wiggle of her eyebrows.

Laughing, I shake my head at her. "Best not to let anyone hear you calling him by his first name," I advise.

Colette merely shrugs, unimpressed. "I don't think he'd mind, actually."

"No, he probably wouldn't. But Matron would," I remind her.

Instead of a verbal reply, Colette choses to grimace in the most frightful way, then, without further ado, grabs my begloved left hand and starts walking in long strides, dragging me along. Idly, I wonder whether there might be any use in protesting against such a treatment, but then give it up as a lost cause. I know Colette well enough by now to guess at the ineffectiveness of any protest. Really, it's quite curious to think how decidedly we disliked one another only last month!

"Do you want to tell me where we're going?" I enquire instead, all indulgent.

"Paris," is her answer, very matter-of-fact.

Surprised, I raise an eyebrow. "Paris?"

"Paris," Colette confirms, without even taking the trouble to shorten her strides or even look at me. "Young Borel has to collect some patients at the train station and will take us into town."

She points to my left and as I turn, I can see Maurice, standing next to his ambulance. The poor kid is already quite red in the face – his ears, especially, are very brightly coloured – and nervously shuffles his feet.

"Why are we going to Paris?" I dare to question.

Now, Colette does turn, if only to throw a withering look in my general direction. " _Why are we going to Paris_?" she mimics, none too kindly. "To go shopping, to eat something tasteful for once, to have some fun? Or did you intend to spend your afternoon off with _anaesthesia_?"

To be honest, that really was the plan. Dr Thomas has lent me an excellent book I had wanted to peruse further. But, not suspecting such a confession to be met with understanding from Colette, I opt to keep quiet.

We've reached Maurice and the ambulance by now. Abruptly, Colette comes to a halt and her gaze fixes on Maurice, whose face turns a couple of shades darker in an instant. Curiously, I observe him. I was unaware a healthy human could even exhibit such an alarmingly bright facial colour.

"Are you ready to go?" Colette enquires, not bothering to hide her impatience. Maurice opens his mouth to reply, but unable to form words, closes it with an audible and probably painful _clack_ of his teeth. Instead, he nods vigorously and moves around the ambulance, to open the door for us.

The moment his back is turned, Colette looks over at me, rolling her eyes expressively. I quickly avert my eyes. I actually feel sorry for him. It's not his fault, is it, him being so hopelessly and unhappily in love with her?

To make this a little easier for Maurice, I take my seat before Colette does, so I can sit between them. Still, for the whole duration of the drive, not a single word leaves Maurice's lips. He just keeps rigidly starring ahead, hardly daring to breathe. On my other side, Colette keeps up a constant stream of chatter, scarcely in need of the comments I interject once in a while.

"You can drop us off now, Borel," Colette announces finally and Maurice slams his foot on the brake, so startled is he at being addressed by her. The ambulance bucks and sputters to a standstill, unseating all three of us none too gently.

It garners him another eye-roll from Colette and this time, I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. The poor boy is really, totally, completely lost.

Maurice's face, having started to turn a more normal shade while we were driving, instantly returns to its alarmingly red colour. He mumbles something incomprehensible, possibly an apology, then flees from the ambulance. His good manners, however, do overcome his mortification, and moments later he appears next to the door on Colette's side, holding it open for us.

I silently thank her for taking the offered hand. I can only guess at how much it would have hurt him, had she ignored it simply to prove a point. In consequence, however, he draws the hand back as if burned, eyeing it incredulously, and thus leaving me to climb down from the ambulance on my own. This time it's me discreetly rolling my eyes. Colette smirks.

"I will, ah, go and get the patients now. Do you want me to collect you afterwards?" he asks, gaze firmly fixed upon the icy Paris street.

"That won't be necessary," Colette informs him carelessly. "We'll take the train."

We will? I look at her, surprised.

"But is this…?" Maurice starts, before making the mistake of raising his gaze. Immediately upon his eyes meeting those of Colette, he freezes. His question remains unfinished, but Colette seems to know what he meant to ask.

"It's _perfectly_ safe. Don't you worry for us. We are quite grown-up and have ridden a train before," she remarks, her voice a little mocking.

"I refuse to take any kind of underground train," I hasten to warn, lest she concoct some plan that might later prove difficult to implement.

Now it's me her mocking gaze turns upon. "Never fear, little wimp. We'll be taking a nice overground suburban train with windows to gaze out of. That alright with you?"

Choosing not to dignify such insolence with a reply, I narrow my eyes at her instead. Colette just laughs delightedly, before abruptly turning back to poor Maurice.

"Very well, Borel. We are grateful for you giving us a ride, but we'll be fine from here on out," she informs him. He, recognizing a dismissal when it is delivered to him, raises his hand in a hurried salute, then flees back into his ambulance. He's probably glad to be finally able to leave her presence.

Without even waiting for the ambulance to start moving, Colette takes my arm and drags me along the pavement. She seems to know where she's headed, but evidently does not think it necessary to inform me of our destination.

"Listen, about that train…" I start cautiously up after several moments. "From which train station does it leave? And how do we intend to get there?"

Eyes twinkling amusedly, Colette turns to me. "The Gare Saint-Lazare you mean? Eighth arrondissement, right in the middle between Place de la Concorde and Montmartre," she explains, "and as to how we'll get there – we are going to walk. I'm not going to force you down into the pits of hell that is the Parisian Metro, so no need to be afraid, little wimp."

"Oh, _ha ha_ ," I murmur with as much sarcasm as I can muster. Colette simply smirks a little wider.

"I am simply no lover of enclosed narrow spaces I can't leave at my free will. Especially not when they are underground and most especially not when they involve some new-fangled technical stuff," I try to defend myself. "Who's saying that whole Metro won't spontaneously burst into flames when we are down there? What will you do _then_ , hmm?"

"Burn, most likely," retorts Colette, quite as if she had not a care in the world. I could have sworn she would have started jumping up and down just to irk me, but for the icy pavement making that an impossible task.

The little –

But it's one of Colette's many talents that you simply can't stay mad at her for any amount of time, so I let it slide. After all, I really do have no other choice but to believe her claims that I won't have to climb down into the pits of hell that is the Parisian Metro. Because, while she's been posted to Saint Cloud long enough to know her way around Paris, I'm hopelessly lost.

"What are we going to do now, then?" I enquire instead, hoping she'll take the olive branch.

Colette, quite as if she's been waiting for that question for some time now, grins widely. "We are going to buy costumes."

" _Costumes_?" I ask incredulously. Whatever do we need _costumes_ for?

Judging from the look she casts my way, Colette is not entirely sure whether to be amused or exasperated. "Costumes. Clothes you put on to look like another person. You might have heard of them? They're for the costume party, of course."

Silently, I blink at her.

Having apparently decided to be exasperated with me, Colette sighs dramatically, throwing her hands into the air. "The costume party? New Year's Eve? Rings a bell?"

No bell. More to the point, I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about, which apparently shows plainly on my face.

"We're having a costume party on New Year's Eve," Colette finally deigns to fill me in. "Don't tell me you haven't heard about it?"

I shake my head silently. That bit of information must have passed me by.

"And no wonder! What with you spending every waking minute with _Dr_ MacIver and _Dr_ Thomas," Colette remarks impatiently. "Really, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you are not _only_ busying yourself with medical questions during all those hours."

"It's not…" I immediately start to explain, but Colette does not even let me finish.

"Oh, don't you worry. I _do_ know better, after all. Quite apart from Dr MacIver being old and Dr Thomas being married, you might be the very last creature in that entire hospital I'd think capable of having an illicit love affair."

Hey! What's that supposed to mean now?

Seeing my probably very affronted face, Colette laughs brightly. "God, how very sweet you are!" she exclaims. Which, all in all, doesn't make this any better.

But, two can play at that game, right? "At least I'm not collecting admirers wherever I go, am I?" I retort pointedly.

Colette grimaces. "You mean young Borel? No idea what he's on about. He's sweet, I guess, but I'm at least three years older than he is!"

"Oh, but what are three years in the grand scheme of things?" I tease and smile at the glare I receive in return.

"You be quiet, Blythe! We are going to buy costumes now and as for that other topic, I don't want to hear another word on it!" The tip of her nose rises to point at the grey, snowy sky.

"Weren't you the one to start on it on the first place?" I ask drily, but Colette ignores the remark, instead choosing to peruse the contents of shop window for several moments. It's a hardware shop.

Curiously, I observe her from the side, before asking, mildly, "Do you intend to attend that party dressed as a Metro train or should we go look for more suitable shops to buy a costume?"

Immediately, a venomous look is thrown my way. "You are impossible, Blythe!" Colette announces, before succumbing to a laugh herself. It is with some triumph that I smile at her, but then I do allow her to drag me onwards.

"Seriously, what costume do you have in mind?" I ask after we have resumed strolling along the pavement.

Colette makes a sweeping gesture. "I'm still looking for inspiration. Though I have to admit that a Metro train is certainly an unusual suggestion." The last with a little side-glance in my direction.

Laughing, I bend my head in a mock bow. "At your service!" I remark playfully, before turning serious again. "But, for real now – do you really think it makes sense to spend money on costumes of all things?"

With an unimpressed shrug, Colette replies, "Maybe not sense, but it sure is fun, no? Besides – what else do you plan to do with that absurd amount of money they keep throwing at us?"

Well, she's certainly got a point there. We receive the same pay a male lieutenant does, two Canadian dollars a day, plus 60 cent field allowance. Another dollar is paid as ration allowance, though usually retained to finance our own Sisters' mess. When travelling, we get a further 40 cent in travelling allowance and when no quarters are provided, we get another dollar to pay for those. To pay for our uniform, each of us was given the marvellous sum of 150 dollars when we joined up, which actually sets us apart from male officers, who are expected to buy their own uniform. To sum it up, we earn an absurd amount of money. Much more than the English nurses do and much more than we could ever hope to spend – even more so, as the opportunities to part with our well-earned cash are few and far between.

"I'm not sure. There's always the possibility to donate some of it, and there's savings of course…" I wonder aloud.

Colette scoffs. "Every cent I don't spend, my aunt and uncle claim for themselves. Reason enough to buy myself the most expensive, most extravagant costume I can find in this entire city!"

Surprised, I look over at her. I already knew Colette has been raised by her uncle and aunt, but I hadn't been aware of this dislike. I'm too well-mannered to ask, but Colette notices my surprise and sighs.

"My mother died giving birth to me," she explains, sounding less sullen and more resigned all of a sudden, "and my father wasn't up to caring for a screaming infant, so he dropped me off with his sister and her husband and went west. They already had a bunch of children and more were to follow. Some of my cousins I like, some not so much. But at any rate, I was always the poor relation, the only Tremblay among a bunch of Daigles."

"Can't have been easy," I remark gently, as she seems to falter for a moment.

Hesitantly, Colette moves her head, half nodding, half shaking it. "It wasn't terrible, don't get me wrong. I wasn't starved or beaten. I got to eat same as everyone else did and when I was hungry, so were the others. Uncle Omer has never raised a hand against any of us and when Aunt Brigitte did, we had usually earned it. But it was no dream of a childhood. It was loud and chaotic and money was always tight."

My mind turns back to my own childhood and I suppose, if there ever was a perfect childhood, it was our time growing up in Ingleside and Rainbow Valley. Ye, we had our childish sorrows, but we had a comfortable home and loving parents and (mostly) nice siblings and I can't remember ever going to bed hungry. It's not something you can fully appreciate at that age, maybe because you take it for granted, but looking back now I know how much our parents have given us.

"I take it was different for you, yes?" Colette asks, as if having read my thoughts. "You've got that well-cared look about you. That, incidentally, was one of the reasons I didn't like you in the beginning. I was jealous." She winks slightly, to take the sting out of her words, and I smile back.

"I have the most wonderful parents and therefore, my childhood was equally wonderful, all things considered," I answer slowly. "I think I may have been fifteen or sixteen when I realized that not all parents love their children unconditionally. Before, I had thought that to be the norm."

There's a sadness to Colette's smile. "As it should be. Parents _should_ love their children unconditionally!" she exclaims with sudden fierceness.

Cautiously, I look at her. "Did your father…?"

She waves the question aside. "Oh, my father. He doesn't mind me and I don't mind him, but when I was a child he had no use for me and I saw so little of him, he stayed a stranger for the most part. There used to be a time when I dreamed of him making money in the west and then coming home to collect me with a beautiful carriage and all my cousins seeing me drive off, green with envy."

She laughs at her own childhood dream, a little wistful now. When she speaks, however, her voice has a hard edge to it. "Truth is, he lost more money than he made in the west and he never did come home either. He married again after a few years, but by then I was already twelve or thirteen and in employment as a maid with the pastor, and there's really not much sense to have a girl give up a perfectly good employment only so she can spell trouble for her stepmother."

"Twelve or thirteen?" I ask, before I can think to stop myself. The mere thought of having a girl that young in employment already is startling, to say the least.

Colette shrugs. "That was the norm for us. Money was tight, remember? Everyone old enough had to leave school and go earn some. It's part of the reason why I ended up becoming a nurse, actually. I couldn't picture myself as a maid or housekeeper for the rest of my life and didn't have the necessary education to become a teacher. Besides, I have little patience for other people's badly behaved children. Nursing was the only other thing I could think of, where the pay was not so very bad, at the least. Even though I fully realize your reasons for taking up our profession were much more altruistically minded." The last of which is said with a teasing, but mostly kind smile in my direction.

I, however, shake my head. "Oh, don't say that! I became a nurse to be different from my sisters and because my sister-in-law, whom I secretly suspect of having contemplated nursing herself, convinced me it would be quite a wonderful thing to do."

Colette laughs and I'm glad to see her happy again. "Do you know, that might just make me like you a little bit more. And now, let's go look for costumes! I have _a lot_ of money to get rid of and I can't risk that terrible Louise Gagné winning the prize for best costume again!"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Roses of Picardy' from 1916 (lyrics by Haydn Wood, music by Frederick Weatherly)._


	13. Sure, everyone was gay

_December 31_ _st_ _, 1916  
No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France_

 **Sure, everyone was gay**

"What are you writing?" Colette enquires, peering over my shoulder.

"A letter to my mother. I've been meaning to thank her for that care package she sent for Christmas," I explain, turning a little to look at her. Colette is terribly curious.

Immediately, she perks up. "Was that the package with all those excellent cookies?" she wants to know. "Please tell her those cookies were excellent!"

"Will do," I promise with an indulgent little smile. As I take up my pen again, I can hear Colette behind me, letting herself fall upon her bed. It groans and creaks at such insulting treatment, but to no avail.

She manages to be quiet for a second or two, but not for very long. She's never quiet for very long, Colette is. "Four new patients," she announces finally.

I make an "hmm?" sound to show her I'm listening, but without lifting my pen from the paper. This letter has already been sitting on the rickety desk for two days now and I aim to finish it today.

"No 'hmm' – just four new patients," Colette retorts. The bed creaks as she stretches out on it.

I've got nothing in reply, so silence settles in the tent, only punctuated by the scratching of my pen and the far-away thunder of the guns. It's become a kind of permanent background noise to our life, that thunder. It's not even very loud, just the hint of a sound, but it's constant, always there.

"You'd think they'd stop today, at the very least," Colette comments moodily and I know exactly what she's talking about.

"They didn't even stop on Christmas. Why today, then?" I ask with a little shrug.

Her answer is a sigh and I know we are both remembering that midnight mass on Christmas Eve she convinced me to attend, in spite of my definitely not being a Catholic. Even then, the thunder of the guns had been a constant, all awkward and unwieldy, sounding strange and foreign amid the sermon and intercession, the prayers and hymns.

Sometime I wonder whether there's a place left on this godforsaken continent where they cannot be heard, those guns. Just a small place somewhere, a place to take refuge, where there's just _silence_. For even in London, even in sleepy Taplow, the guns' echo could be heard during offensives. Betty hated it.

From behind me, the rustle of sheets can be heard, as Colette pulls the blanket over her head. "Do you suppose it will ever be summer again?" she wonders, making the question sound all serious, even if strictly speaking, it is of course an absurd thing to ask.

"Summer as in sun and warmth and green grass and singing birds, you mean?" I look up from my letter for a moment.

Colette nods vigorously. She's pulled the blanket up to her chin, wide eyes peering at me over the hem. It makes for a pitiful sight.

Thoughtfully, I consider her, as if taking my time to think the question over. "To be quite honest… no, I don't think so."

"No, I didn't think so either," Colette assents with a sigh. Then, abruptly, she pulls the covers up over her head.

With a smile and a shake of the head I gaze at the blanket mountain she has created, before turning back to my letter and adding a question about whether it's this cold at home as well. Because I can't remember suffering through a winter quite like this one and neither can anyone else I've spoken to. And that coming from a bunch of Canadians! We're used to _cold_. At home, we've had winters when everything was covered in snow from October right through till May, and between December and March, it's usually freezing at any rate. If there ever was a folk used to the cold, it should be us, and yet, at every opportunity, even huddled under blankets, we're as close as possible to those small stoves the army thinks sufficient – mistakenly, of course.

As if on cue, the blanket mountain starts talking, "I'm cold."

Quickly, I close my letter – best wishes and I hope everyone's well – and fold the paper in half. Only then do I turn to Colette, aiming for zest and joviality as I speak. "Come on," I try to encourage, "don't you want to get dressed for the costume party?"

"Getting dressed is cold!" protests the blanket mountain.

I can't even argue with it on that account. Getting dressed _is_ cold. We've long since started sleeping in our uniforms, preferably with the added layers of two sweaters on top. Having to get washed in the morning might just be my least favourite activity at the moment and that's saying something, considering I spent the better part of yesterday picking maggots out of a man's rotten leg.

"But if you're not getting dressed, Louise Gagné might end up winning the prize," I remind her. "At lunch, she bragged something horrible about that apparently oh so amazing costume of hers."

For a second or two, there's thoughtful silence, then the blanket mountain starts to move and Colette's head emerges from its midst. She looks suitably tousled and regards me with no small amount of distrust. "We cannot let Louise the Terrible win," she remarks hesitatingly.

"Not if we can help it," I nod.

With a heavy sigh, Colette starts extracting herself from the blanket. All the while, she keeps murmuring surly, but it's just quiet enough so that only scraps of it reach my ears. If I'm not mistaken, however, it includes 'ice age' and 'hibernation' and even the odd word she might have learned from Dr MacIver.

I decide to leave her to it for the time being and lay out my own costume in my bed instead. Behind me, there's still that constant stream of moody mumblings, but at least she's on her feet and the rustle of clothing tells me that yes, she's really getting dressed. Quickly, I shed my own uniform and pull on the costume, for it is imperative to keep the time of being undressed as short as possible in this freezing cold.

"Hair down," demands Colette as I turn to face her.

Involuntarily, my hand flies up to touch my hair. I haven't worn in down in public since the Queen's days at least. Doubtfully, I look at her. "Are you sure?"

She nods decidedly. "You're a witch, no? And witches do not care about other people's expectations. So, hair down."

With a little hesitation, I pull the pins from my hair, letting it fall on my shoulders in a loosely wound knot. As I reach for my comb, a sharp slap on my hand stops me.

"Witch," Colette reminds, quite as if that were enough it explain anything. Then, stepping behind me, she musses up my hair with her hands.

"Your hair is much too beautiful to be covered up all day by that horrible veil anyway," she informs me. "I've never understood how, once a girl turns sixteen, she isn't allowed to be seen with hair down in public. I mean, what do they think is going to _happen_?" This, with a disdainful scoff at public expectations in general.

In reply, I make a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat, for, to be honest, I've never actually thought about it that much. It's just one of those things that simply _are_.

Not that Colette expects me to answer anyway. She's rather preoccupied putting the finishing touches on my costume. After having deposited a black witch's hat on my loose hair, she now steps back, thoughtfully considering her work. For a moment, she actually looks pleased, only for a frown to suddenly appear between her eyes. "Your nose! Where's your nose?" she demands to know, eyeing me with impatience.

Ah, drat. I had been hoping she might have forgotten about the nose.

Sullenly, I look at her, all the while knowing that any protest is quite useless. "I've got it here," I give in after three or four seconds of her staring me down, pulling out the papier-mâché nose Colette has made for me with her own two hands.

It was her idea, me being a witch, and I mostly just went along with it. For one, because it's simply the path of least resistance. For another, because I had no better idea. And for a third, because there's a definite advantage to being allowed to wear all those layers a witch's costume consists of. But, to my excuse, I had been unaware then of Colette's image of a witch involving a warty beak of a nose and of me being expected to conform to Colette's image of a witch. Had I known that I'd end up having a large papier-mâché nose tied to my face for the entire evening, maybe I would have put more effort into thinking of an alternative costume. Snake, maybe. Or Eel.

Not leaving room for any form of resistance, Colette attaches the nose creation to my face. To be honest, I can remember many a time when breathing has been far easier, but it'll be alright, I suppose.

After having contemplated me critically for a second time, Colette finally nods. "Very nice. But don't you dare forget your broom!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," I mumble with the tiniest hint of sarcasm, just enough for her to notice. Though, of course, Colette being Colette, she merely ignores my attempts at rebellion.

"Here, help me," she prompts instead, poking me into action. While my hair apparently has to be down, hers needs to be tied back tightly, the better to disappear completely, for Colette is dressed as a wounded French soldier.

She's wearing a borrowed collection of civilian clothing and uniform pieces, seemingly arbitrarily thrown together, but in truth carefully chosen. Around her head, I wind a thick bandage that ends up covering half her forehead, before putting the flat cap of the French soldier on top of it.

Had she attempted to portray a British or Canadian patient, she would have needed to dress in _convalescent blues_ , sometimes called _hospital blues_ as well. This shapeless blue flannel suit, completed by a white shirt and red tie, is given to every convalescing patient in any hospital in England – save for officers, of course – and he is to wear it until back in uniform or demobilized. But this unit having been posted to France from the very beginning, I'm probably one of very few who ever set foot into a hospital in England, so the majority would likely not even recognize this peculiar uniform. It is therefore quite logical for Colette to mimic a French soldier instead.

With a critical eye, she considers herself in our tiny mirror. Without turning away from her own reflection, she extents a hand, demanding, "My sling!"

I risk an eye-roll, which she either does not see or does not want to see, before I hand her the large triangular bandage she is to use as an arm sling. Next, I reach for the thermometer sitting on the rickety desk, but Colette slaps my hand away.

"Don't! You'll break it!" She's quick to grab the thermometer from below my outstretched hand and as I turn to look at her, there's a devilish little smile on her face.

"Oh, ha ha. Aren't you amusing?" I retort, decidedly _un_ amused, but unable to contradict her. The lifespan of a thermometer in my custody has not lengthened considerably since my Taplow days. But then, it's not my fault they're so terribly fragile, is it?

Colette eschews an answer, instead busying herself with fastening the string she's tied around the thermometer to her collar. When she raises her head again, she's smirking at me, the thermometer hanging from the corner of her mouth.

"Pretty," I comment drily, earning myself a dirty look. She lets the thermometer fall down to dangle from its string, and explains matter-of-factly, "It's not supposed to be pretty. It's just supposed to garner us more votes than whatever Louise is wearing."

Which sums up our mission quite nicely.

I reach for the triangular bandage, to fasten it into an arm sling for her, but with a raised hand Colette stops me. Instead, she reaches for a small object – I am unable to see it properly – and seems to pin it to her shirt. It is only when she drops her hands that I catch a glimpse of a cross-shaped medal, hanging from a blue-and-red striped band.

"Is that…?" I ask.

The smirk is back. "The Croix de Guerre. Little Hollard gave it to me," she confirms with a nod and looks altogether quite like the cat that got the cream.

Three days ago, there was a _Prise d'Armes_ in this hospital, a military parade, during which several of our patients were given medals. The War Cross, _Croix de Guerre_ , and even the Military Medal, _Médaille militaire_. Private Hollard, a patient on Colette's ward, had been given a War Cross – and apparently has managed to lose it already. No doubt she's talked him into giving it up.

Colette, noticing my frown, immediately jumps to her own defense. "I'll give it back! No need to look all sceptical, really. But it's so much more authentic this way, no?"

"Sure. Because _of course_ you'd get a medal, right?" I retort drily.

Choosing to answer by sticking out her tongue at me, Colette then presses the triangular bandage into my waiting hands. Quickly, I fasten it into a sling for her right arm, before Colette casts a final critical eye over both of us. "Good," résumés and what option do I have but to believe her?

In leaving the tent, I grab my broom and Colette takes hold of her crutch, then we hurry towards the Sisters' Mess.

"Have you done this before? Costume parties, I mean?" I ask, as we make our way through the cold.

"A couple of times, yes," nods Colette, "during the summer we had a big party with the patients. I was a telegram boy and Aimée…"

She breaks off, turns her head away, as she always does when she inadvertently mentions Aimée. She doesn't, usually, but sometimes, when she's not careful, a mention of her slips by, reminding both of us how much she still misses her every day.

Silently, I reach for her hand, give it a short squeeze. Two or three moments pass before I feel her squeeze back, just for a second, before letting go of my hand again.

"Louise was made up as an African princess," she continues her tale and almost manages to sound cheerful doing so. "That costume must have cost a small fortune and that's what won her the first prize. She was insufferable for days, I tell you! Or, you know, more insufferable than is usual even for her. Aim – well, _we_ decided back then never to let her win again."

So this is how it is, then. This is Aimée's mission Colette has imposed upon herself. But, who'd deny her, especially when it's something as harmless as costumes?

The Mess greets us with a gust of warm air – they must have collected half the stoves this hospital possesses – and a jaunty tune, played by a gramophone set up in a corner. There are quite a lot of people here already, nurses and doctors and even the odd patient already well enough to leave his bed. Only officers, of course-heaven forbid we be seen fraternizing with the ordinary ranks.

Louise Gagné holds court in the middle of the room, clad in layers of heavily embroidered silk, and manages to look vaguely oriental. She's clustered a crowd of admirers around herself, but it doesn't take long for most of them to turn their attention on Colette instead. For her costume may not be as mysterious and luxurious as Louise's, but it's got spunk and charm and that's what a costume party is supposed to be about, isn't it?

Colette receives the attention generously and even looks a little shy at times, but when she directs a secret little wink in my direction, I realize she has planned this entire situation to transpire just _so_. Louise, certainly, looks decidedly unamused, plucking meaningfully at her layers of silk and whispering to the devotees she always has trailing in her wake.

From the gramophone, John McCormack croons something about a smile and sunshine and it's almost more corny than I think a can bear. Colette, however, visibly perks up at the song.

"Oh, they're playing 'The sunshine of your smile'! I love that song! Come on, let's dance." With which announcement, and with no further thought for her collected admirers, she grabs my hand and drags me towards the improvised dance floor in the middle of the room. Once there, we stand opposite one another for a moment or two, unsure who's going to be the lead, but as our eyes meet, we both laugh.

"I'm in trousers, I'm leading," Colette finally decides. As her left arm is still in its sling, we make for a very awkward pair, my right hand coming to lie on her splayed out elbow, but really, who's going to care? Not us, certainly.

"Did you know that English nurses aren't allowed to dance?" I ask once we've found our rhythm.

From under her head bandage, Colette peers at me dubiously. "Why ever not?"

"As far as I understand, it's regarded as unseemly," I reply, shrugging. "But that's just what I've heard. It might be something altogether different."

A scoff is the answer. "Those English!" mumbles Colette, whose opinion on the English is only marginally more flattering than Dr MacIver's take on the French people.

"Strictly speaking, we're both Englishwomen as well," I remind with a smile, because there's no such thing as a Canadian nationality after all. We're all part of the splendid British Empire and as such, we're all English.

"Speak for yourself," grumbles Colette and, as if to punish me for my insolence, pushes me into an especially spirited turn.

The moment the song comes to an end, there are two men standing before us. "May we?" asks Dr Lévesque, a young surgeon, and, with a gallant little bow, offers me his hand. Colette, meanwhile, is whisked away by a patient in a French lieutenant's uniform. As he, too, has an arm in a sling, they make for an amusing sight.

"Quite the pair," remarks Dr Lévesque, having followed my gaze, and I nod, laughing.

The whole evening has an airy quality to it, the kind I've not experienced in a long time. Certainly not since leaving Canada, and maybe not since Franz Ferdinand met his fate in far-away Sarajevo. The hours flow into one another and trickle away far too soon. I talk and I laugh and I dance, with doctors and patients and, once, even with Dr MacIver, and when I'm not dancing I sample from the buffet, though I have no idea quite where such delicacies can be found in a country as war-torn as this.

Naturally, I cast my vote for Colette and make sure to clap especially loud as she takes first place before a sour-looking Louise Gagné. Her prize is a hideous blue band, and as she accepts it, she looks triumphant and satisfied and a little bit wistful. This is Aimée's prize, as we both know.

And then, far too soon, I can hear people starting to count all around us, counting down the last seconds of the old year. The French captain, with whom I've been dancing, brings us to a halt and I hurry to bring some distance between us, lest he get any funny thoughts. After all, I don't even know his name!

But he's all manners, gallant and kind, and to be quite honest, he doesn't feel like such a stranger anymore. For we are all part of this war and thus, part of a whole and this special bond cannot be taken from us. And so I stand, holding the hand of this nameless stranger, who doesn't feel so very strange anymore, and listening to the many-voiced choir ringing off the old year and greeting a new one.

1916 is history. 1916, that saw me over a big sea and then over a small one and that has brought me to a place I could never have imagined before, not in my wildest dreams.

What, then, might 1917 bring?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' from 1912 (lyrics and music by Jack Judge)._

 _The song 'The sunshine of your smile' is from 1913 (lyricy by Leonard Cooke, music by Lilian Ray)._


	14. No matter what befalls you

_January 10_ _th_ _, 1917  
Canadian Red Cross Special Hospital, Buxton, England_

 **No matter what befalls you**

Slowly, I stroll along the platform, observing the people around me. I've been back in England for a couple of days now, and yet it still feels a little odd to hear everybody speak English after having heard only French for so many weeks.

Even more odd, however, is the sense of suddenly having _time_. After half a year with the army, I have gotten so used to always having something to do, that being on leave leaves me with a very strange feeling. Several times a day, I catch myself developing a kind of guilty conscience, without there being any reason at all, and it usually takes a second or two for me to realise that it's because I'm not _doing_ anything. I keep reminding myself that, on leave, I don't have to be doing anything useful, but it never quite suffices to make the guilt go away.

"Alright, I know where we have to go. It's not very far, just about ten minutes on foot," Walter interrupts my thought, coming to stand beside me.

"Well, let's go then!" I respond with more zest than I'm truly feeling.

He holds out his arm for me to take and as we walk through the spa town, I keep sneaking glances at him. I haven't quite seen my fill of him yet.

Walter, being ever so attentive, notices my gaze. "What is it, Rilla-my-Rilla?" he questions with a smile.

I hint at a shrug. "Nothing, really. I'm just glad to see you're feeling better."

In reply, he gently squeezes my arm. "So am I. There were times when I thought I'd never leave that hospital."

"And now they're sending you on to work in the next hospital. Poor you!" I commiserate.

Walter nods slowly, but manages a smile nonetheless, and as he answers, his voice is composed, "It's not so bad, really. I imagine there will be lots to do for a chaplainin a hospital. Of course, I would have preferred to return to France to be with the men of my unit, but in a way I've always known that to be wishful thinking. And even I have to admit that it's probably beneficial for my health to steer clear of the trenches for a while yet."

That's Walter for you. Sometimes, he really is too good for this world. He always tries to see the good in anything and I'm quite certain that, had he not become a priest, he would have been quite unbearable. I mean, from a priest at least this is expected behaviour.

"They're sending you down south, aren't they? To the channel coast?" I ask.

Walter nods. "To Sussex. Eastbourne is a seaside resort, not far from Brighton, if not as famous."

I take a moment to look around us, take in the streets of Buxton, this sleepy little spa town we're in, before turning back to him. "It's curious, isn't it?" I wonder aloud. "Them setting up their hospital either in manor houses or resort towns."

"Not to mention racetracks," retorts Walter, not missing a beat, causing me to laugh. The thought of a hospital on a racecourse has become so, well, _normal_ to me, that I tend to forget how absolutely ridiculous it sounds when said out loud.

"Can't forget racetracks," I agree easily. "Though the French are to blame for that and the French can't be trusted either way. Says Dr MacIver."

"Dr MacIver is the surgeon, isn't he?" Walter questions.

"That he is. He's pretty awkward when it comes to human interaction, but as a surgeon, he's nothing short of brilliant. I'm learning so much from him! And Dr Thomas allows me to assist with anaesthesia sometimes by now and – _what_?" Warily I look up to Walter. He, in turn, considers me with an indulgent little smile.

"Nothing," he soothes tenderly. "It's just so lovely to see how much you are enjoying your work. We were a little worried, all of us, that you might find it strenuous, but now look at you – the born nurse! I'm almost a little surprised they let you get away on leave at all."

Eagerly, I nod. "Now, _that_ did surprise me as well! Matron still begrudges me for finding my way into the theatre, never mind my being totally innocent of that particular development. That's not her stance though, so when your telegram came, I hardly dared hope for her to grant me leave at the same time as you. But, alas, I had to ask her, at the very least. Imagine my surprise when she actually consented! Even though, to be honest, I suspect that consent to be mostly based on the fact that we've hardly received any new patients since the fighting around Verdun died down. And besides, who else actually wants to go on leave in January of all months?"

Walter laughs softly. "There are nicer months to go on leave, admittedly, and this freezing cold does not improve matters. But it's nice, isn't it, us being able to spend some time together?"

"Of course it is! I am so very glad to be able to see you again!" I insist. "Besides, it was nice seeing Taplow again and Miss Talbot and Betty and Polly. I've missed them, over in France. Not as much as you and mum and dad and everyone, but bad enough."

"They're nice girls, your Betty and Polly," Walter replies kindly. As he notices the grin stealing on my face, he raises both eyebrows questioningly.

For a second, I consider whether it is proper to say what I intend to say, but then – it's just Walter, after all. "Oh, it's just that Polly is very likely rueing the day you received your ordination. She has intended Shirley for Betty, but you she thought _mighty_ nice!"

As is his custom, Walter overlooks my remark with a lenient shake of the head, instead broaching a new topic to discuss. "Have you heard from Shirley about when his officers' training course is expected to begin?" he asks.

I know very well he's trying to distract me, but decide to allow it. "As far as I understood, it should start sometime this month. He doesn't expect us to be able to see one another though, because we'll be here in England concurrently only for a few days, if that, and he can hardly get away during the first few days of his training. You two, however, should be able to meet, now that you are both posted here. That course will keep him in England for four and a half month, and the training school is somewhere in the south as well."

"In Crowborough," adds Walter. "That's in Sussex, same as Eastbourne."

This, I am pleased to hear. "Then you'll be near each other, yes? Do promise to keep an eye on him, will you? And make him write more. Compared to Shirley, _I'm_ a veritable letter writer and I'm usually writing my letters half asleep after a day spend in the theatre. With half of them, I have no idea what's actually in them."

"I'll do my best," promises Walter. Then, suddenly, he stops. "I think we're here."

Head cocked to the side, I consider the tall building to our left. "Doesn't look much like a hospital," I remark critically.

"It used to be a hotel, or so the conductor said. The Peak Hydro? Something like that," Walter explains.

"Resort town, mansion houses _and_ luxury hotels," I murmur, shaking my head in disbelief.

"And racetracks," reminds my brother with a smile.

As I roll my eyes, his smile widens. Then, with an encouraging squeeze of my arm, he asks, "Shall we?"

A moment or two I hesitate, before finally nodding, though not without some reluctance. Part of me does not want to set foot in this hospital, does not want to know what it has to hide. But I have to. I promised Nan, so I have to.

Half a step behind Walter I walk through the imposing front door, which once was the entrance to what must have been one of the finest hotels around. Now, however, I am met by the familiar smells and sounds of a hospital and immediately feel myself relax a little. This I know. This is my world.

Walter, meanwhile, has stopped a sister attempting to hurry past us "Excuse me? We are here to see Lieutenant Meredith."

The sister halts, considers him for a second, before moving her gaze on to me. We are equals, as she can see by the uniform I'm required to wear even on leave. Her words, then, she also addresses to me. "How do you know Lieutenant Meredith?"

"He's our brother-in-law," I answer matter-of-factly. "I'm Nursing Sister Blythe and this is my brother, Army Chaplain Blythe."

Another searching look, followed by a curt nod. "Wait here. I'll let the ward know you're here. Someone will be down to collect you presently." With which she turns around and hastens on, not even giving us a chance to reply.

Walter gazes after her, thoughtfully, before turning to me. "I suppose I'd better get used to the presence of very busy nurses, shall I?" he wonders, the faint lines around his eyes crinkling up.

"There's never nothing to do in a hospital. Probably not so different from life at the front, really," I reply with a shrug.

"Oh, you'd be surprised! Most of the time out there is spent waiting," Walter counters.

And yes, this does surprise me, but before I get a chance for further inquiries, I hear someone clear their throat behind me. As I turn, there's an orderly there, standing to attention. "Sir, Ma'am, may I take you to Lieutenant Meredith, please?"

"Alright then," murmurs Walter and motions for the man to go ahead. Taking my hand, he holds it tightly. Anyone else, I probably would have taken my hand away, but with Walter, I permit it.

The orderly leads us along the former hotel's corridors, that have been turned into a hospital as effectively as the racetrack of Saint Cloud. Finally, he stops in front of a door, knocking softly.

"He's in here," he explains to Walter. For a moment, he hesitates, his eyes flitting between us, before he quickly adds, "Please, try not to be too loud. And – don't agitate him."

A last salute and he hastens back along the corridor, leaving us to mull over his ominous sounding words. Sharing a meaningful glance, we stand in front of the door, both of us hesitating. Finally it's me who, taking heart, slowly pushes the door open.

The room is dusky, only brightened by a weak January sun. Jerry is sitting by the window, his back to us. He doesn't turn, doesn't even show any sign of being aware of our presence. His gaze is fixed on the window or something beyond it. His hands are tightly clasped, his back held straight. Only his left leg is moving, slightly but relentlessly, an almost imperceptible tapping on the floor.

I feel Walter look at me, questioningly, as if I can somehow help him with this. Truth is, among all the patients I have so far encountered, Jerry is not the first one to be emotionally scarred by the war – not by far. But in Taplow we didn't receive such special cases and with Saint Cloud being a surgical hospital, we are left to treat the body, not the mind. We patch them up and if they are emotionally hurt, that is, for the time being, secondary.

In short, I am as helpless as Walter is.

He seems to notice, for this time it is him taking the lead, stepping closer to Jerry.

"Jerry, old man, how are you doing?" His tone is one men like to adopt with one another when things are getting emotional. I think they consider it to be all strong and masculine, and have to work at stopping an eye roll.

Instead, I observe Jerry. He starts at Walter's words, then freezes for several seconds, except for the tapping leg. Only then, slowly, does he turn his head around to face us.

"Walter," he remarks, before moving his gaze on to me, "and Rilla."

His voice is flat, toneless, bare any emotion. Monotone. But he has recognized us and I'm relieved. He's still got his memories, at the very least.

"Hello, Jerry," I greet him cautiously, stepping closer as well. He considers me, his returning nod being somewhat delayed. His face is impassive still, but now that he has turned, I can see how pale his skin is, how sunken his cheek. He must have lost a lot of weight.

"How are you?" I repeat Walter's earlier question, because it has remained unanswered. Or maybe because I can think of nothing better to say.

Jerry blinks. Once, twice. Then he turns his head back to the window, resumes his starring. Whether he did not understand the question or did not hear it or does not want to answer, I do not know. But that he will not answer is obvious.

I share a helpless gaze with Walter. He raises his shoulders in a slight shrug.

"Will you turn off the alarm when you go?" comes a sudden voice from the window. Quickly, I turn my head, but had I not know it has been Jerry speaking, I wouldn't have guessed at it. He hasn't moved, shows no signs of having spoken at all.

As I look back at Walter, he silently moves his lips, " _Alarm_?"

"Tinnitus, maybe," I whisper back. Because there's a silence in the room almost unsettling in its intensity, pierced at regular intervals by Jerry's tapping foot. The shrill of the alarm must, therefore, be in his head and with a shiver I wonder what else is happening in there that does not have a counterpart in the outside world.

"And no wonder," murmurs Walter, "to be honest I'm mostly surprised there are still soldiers left who don't suffer from tinnitus, what with the constant shelling over there."

He's spoken softly, but apparently not quietly enough. For the moment the words have left his lips, a sudden change registers in Jerry. Where before he has been delayed in his reactions, he now leaps up so fast I barely have time to blink. Before Walter or I have a chance to move, he's rushed past us, to the bed and then under it. His movements are ungainly, angular in nature, and more than once he almost falls before finally reaching the bed. The tapping leg he apparently only has marginal control over, as it slides away from beneath him several times. He has to hold it in place with both hands as he walks.

Walter appears frozen, so I am the one to approach the bed with hesitating steps. I crouch down next to it, and peer into the darkness. "Jerry? Are you alright?"

A stupid question, of course, but what else is there to say?

Jerry doesn't answer. He is huddled under the bed, head hidden inside his hands, eyes firmly closed. Only now do I notice his left hand and arm shivering violently, right up to the shoulder.

"Jerry?" I try again, but instead of answering, he just starts humming frantically. It's almost as if there's something he wants to drown out with the humming, which might be my voice or something only he can hear.

A shadow falls on me and as I sit back, there's Walter next to me. "Can you get someone?" I ask. My voice is steady, which surprises me for no more than a second. I was taught never to lose my nerves, and this, in its own way, is not so very different from a ruptured artery. That's not to mean that tonight, when lying in bed in a nondescript guesthouse, I won't cry for him. But tears are for the darkness and loneliness of night. For the moment, I am outwardly composed.

Walter, at least, seems grateful for being told what to do, which makes sense, in a way – Jem is Jerry's best friend, but Walter, too, looks back upon a shared childhood, which I was too young to take part in. Understandable then, that he, who has probably comforted many a man suffering as Jerry does, is rendered immobile by seeing a childhood friend thus. He's quite pale now, Walter is, and there's a horror in his eyes likely mirrored in my own. But he nods, before hastening out of the room. He's probably glad to be able to leave it. I would be.

Instead, I crouch back down to look under the bed. Softly, I talk to Jerry, trying to calm him somehow, but to no avail. Only the humming stops after a while.

Hearing footsteps coming closer, I sit back, then pick myself up from the floor. Seconds later, two orderlies enter the room, accompanied by a sister. Following them are Walter and a tired-looking doctor who nods in greeting. I take a few steps back, leaving the orderlies and the nurse to attend to Jerry instead.

Walter and the doctor have remained standing near the door and I move to join them. Together, we step into the corridor, the doctor softly closing the door behind us.

"What just happened there, Sir?" I ask outright. I simply lack the patience for courtesy.

"I assume you used one of his trigger words," the doctor answers.

Slowly, I nod. "Trigger words," I repeat. The term is a new one, but I have an idea or two on what it may mean.

"Lieutenant Meredith is one of our… _easier_ patients. Usually, he's very quiet, sometimes catatonically so. But there are special words that trigger a fear reaction within him, like the one you've just seen," the doctor continues.

I have just started going back over our conversation in my head, as Walter says quietly, "Shelling. I said something about shelling."

The doctor nods. "Yes, 'shells' is one of those words." If he's wondering why Walter would use such a word in front of a patient like Jerry, he does not let it show. Still, I know how horrible Walter must be feeling.

"Do you know how your brother-in-law was wounded?" the doctor questions.

I move to shake my head. Walter, however, answers, "I asked around a bit while I was still in France. He was wounded during the fighting at the St. Eloi craters, the first big attack of the Second Division. It was too terrible for words, from what I've heard. For weeks on end, the soldiers had to survive out in the open, crouched down in mine craters through wind and weather and enemy shelling. Often, they didn't sleep for days, could only move by crawling through the mud. Whoever raised his head was as good as dead. The whole time, they were shelled by grenades and artillery and shot at by machine guns, and, often enough, there was hand-to-hand combat as well. It was pure chaos – a disaster. Casualties were terribly high and by the end of it, most craters were back in enemy hands. And Jerry lived through all of it. Very shortly before his battalion was taken from the line, he was wounded by a grenade."

"Yes, that's what I understood as well," the doctor confirms. "On good days, he sometimes allows us to talk about how he was wounded. He doesn't like speaking about it, but from what I have pieced together, his batman was killed by the very same grenade that injured your brother-in-law. It blew his head off. And Lieutenant Meredith had to stay in that crater for another day, wounded, right next to the headless body of his batman, before he managed to drag himself to safety. The body he had to leave behind. He blames himself for that to this day."

And suddenly, I feel cold.

"Do you think that's why…?" I start to ask, only to realize I have no idea where I intend to take the question, so end up letting it hang in the air.

The doctor however, seems to understand, for he nods slowly. "There's a breaking point for everyone. A point, after which we just cannot continue anymore. Some reach it sooner, others later. Your brother-in-law, I think, reached his breaking point when he had to watch his batman being killed. The symptoms he is exhibiting I consider a consequence of this experience, much more than of his own injury, which does not seem to burden him either physically or mentally anymore."

"What are these symptoms?" asks Walter, "I mean, apart from…" He nods vaguely towards the door to Jerry's room.

"He is lacking in appetite and has trouble sleeping. When he does sleep, he has recurring nightmares. Additionally, he suffers from constant tinnitus, occasional headaches and a changing tremor that can affect different body parts. He is, however, and that's good news, mostly lucid. He knows who is his and can access his memories. That sets him apart from a lot other patients with similar afflictions," the doctor explains.

"How do you treat him?" I wonder, though it is with some reluctance that I voice the question out loud. Hearing the doctor speak has unearthed the memory of an overheard and then forgotten conversation, that weighed the pros and cons of electroshock therapy in treatment of neurasthenic cases. And there's a special kind of horror to that particular thought.

"Our treatment mostly consists of conversational therapy, hypnosis, massages and warm baths. How the different parts of it are compiled depends on the individual patient," answers the doctor.

I let go of the breath I had not realized I had been holding. No electric shocks, at the very least. I can't say what I would have done, had he told me they were treating Jerry with these.

"I'm glad he's here to receive all these treatments," Walter comments. With most people this could easily have sounded smarmy, but with Walter it's merely a fact. And he is right – it's _good_ for Jerry to be treated!

For the first time in our entire conversation, I see the doctor hesitate. When he does reply, his voice is careful, even a little stiff, "It is… unfortunate that not all soldiers suffering from the mental strain this war puts them under receive an adequate treatment."

Oh, he's being diplomatic. Because who can really say how often symptoms like Jerry's are dismissed as acting or cowardice? Seen as a conscious attempt to escape the battles?

Just as Walter moves to speak, the door to Jerry's rooms opens and the nurse steps into the corridor. "He's calmer now," she informs the doctor.

He nods at her, utters a quiet thanks, then turns back to Walter and me. "Do you want to go back to see him?" he enquires.

We share a quick look. "Is that wise?" Walter finally asks, voicing my exact doubts.

"I don't see how it could be unwise," the doctor answers. "So long as you keep your conversation away from anything related to this war, it might even help him. You have shared memories from a time before the war, don't you? Talk about those. Maybe the remembrance of more peaceful times can help him process what he has experienced."

There's a logic to his words and as Walter casts me a questioning look, I nod slightly. "Well, then," he murmurs, appears to gather his courage, before entering Jerry's room a second time.

I hang back for a moment, let the two orderlies pass, then step towards the door. Before I enter the room, however, I hesitate, turn back towards the doctor, "Sir?"

He looks up from some papers the sister has handed him and, with a nod, motions for me to continue.

"Do you suppose… do you suppose he will – well, get _better_? Really, truly _better_ , I mean?" I ask, almost fearing the answer he might give. There's a lump in my throat I can't seem to get rid of.

For the first time, I see the hint of a smile on the doctor's lips, but it is a sad smile. He takes a moment to answer and when he does, his voice is a little wistful. "I know we are doing all we can to help him get better. Him and every other patient. But who will make it… well, no-one can predict that."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Your King and Country want you' from 1914 (lyrics and music by Paul Rubens)._


	15. The moon above to those in love

_January 19_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France_

 **The moon above to those in love**

It is very nearly dark as the driver drops me off in Saint Cloud. He's an orderly, about twice my age, and so far, I've had very little to do with him. During the whole drive from the _Gare du Nord_ to Saint Cloud, he has addressed maybe four sentences to me, but seeing as the journey was strenuous and I'm pretty tired, I don't mind his silence.

Thus, on reaching the hospital, I really only long for my bed and glorious sleep. To avoid meeting anyone who could potentially put themselves in between myself and said bed by asking questions, I don't take the direct route to my tent, but choose a little detour past the store buildings. This part of the hospital tends to be more quiet and less populous, especially in the evening, when the night shift has taken over and patients and personnel alike are already for the most part fast asleep.

Imagine, then, my surprise at hearing a distinct sound to my right. For a moment I consider shrugging my shoulders and moving on, but curiosity being one of my more pronounced vices, I decide against it. Thus, I leave the well-trodden path, climb over a small mound of snow and peer into the shadows cast by one of the huts.

The hospital is mostly clad in darkness at night, as a precaution against enemy planes, but the moon is bright tonight and with the snow reflecting the light, I have no problem at all detecting two figures leaning against the side of the hut, holding each other close and – yes, kissing. Apparently, I'm not the only one preferring this mostly deserted side of the hospital, though obviously for different reasons. I allow myself a small smile and start to turn back already, the sooner to finally reach my bed, when something makes me stop, take a second look. I narrow my eyes, the better to see, and find my inkling confirmed.

The woman looks an awful lot like Colette. And as for the man – isn't that…?

I must have made a sound, because quite abruptly, Colette raises her head. "Rilla!" she calls out quietly, as her eyes find me in the darkness. Frantically, she disentangles her limbs from the man's and motions for him to leave with a quick wave of the hand. Without turning, he does as he is told, striding off and soon melting into the darkness.

Colette, on the other hand, comes over to me. Her hands are moving about hectically, adjusting her veil, closing the two uppermost buttons of her coat, brushing fly-away strands of hair from her face.

"Good evening, my dear Colette," I greet, observing her with some amusement.

"What are you _doing_ here? We expected you back before noon already!" she replies, managing to make it sound almost accusing.

I merely shrug. "The train from London was late, causing me to miss the ship to Boulogne. I had to take the next one and once I was finally back in France, the train to Paris took about twice as long as it ought to have, because we were forced to make way for countless of other trains," I explain, a little impatient. "But, _do_ tell –"

Colette, however, does not allow me to finish my question. Instead, "How is your brother?"

 _Might_ somebody be trying to distract me?

"Walter is alright," I nevertheless answer, "what's _far_ more interesting, however, is –"

A second time, Colette is quick to interrupt. "And your brother-in-law? Did you manage to see him? How is –"

" _Colette_!" This time it's me doing the interrupting. Any attempt at seriousness, however, fails spectacularly. Instead, I can't help laughing as I see her face.

"Never mind Jerry just about now. Much more interesting – _who_ was that, just then?" I ask, raising an enquiring eyebrow.

Colette actually hangs her head a little. "That was nothing," she murmurs, sounding mostly deflated, with just the tiniest bit of rebellion evident in her voice.

"Didn't look like nothing to me," I contradict. "Quite the contrary, actually. It looked an awful lot like Maurice."

The staunch silence greeting my remark is the only answer I need.

"Do tell, has he found a way to age himself by three years in the span of two weeks? If so, we should bottle it up and sell it. I bet the army would pay us a pretty penny!" I remark innocently.

Immediately, Colette raises her head, eyes flashing. As I just smile back easily, her face darkens even more. "You are wicked and very mean!" she announces, sounding, for all intents and purposes, like a pouting school girl.

" _Sure_ I am," I retort calmly, still smiling. "And as we can now consider that satisfactorily established, maybe we could take this inside instead and talk it over where it's warmer? It _is_ freezing out here, although admittedly the two of you might have found a novel way to keep warm during your little _tête-à-tête_."

And as for the smack she directs at my arm… well, I've probably earned that one.

Nevertheless, Colette quite meekly follows me to our tent, despite spending the whole way grumbling about me being a very bad friend and some other not very complimentary descriptions. That I fail to take any offense at all is mostly down to the fact that we both know she doesn't mean it. Besides, nothing ever sounds quite as horrible when said in French.

"Alright. So tell," I order once we have reached the tent. "Maurice?"

Letting myself fall on my bed, I look up at her expectantly. Colette remains standing, in the middle of the tent, and hides her face in her hands.

"I have _no_ idea how that happened," comes the muffled admission from between her fingers.

"Well, imagine my surprise then," I retort drily, while busying myself with extracting my sore feet from the army-issue winter boots. "Didn't you think him too young?"

"He _is_!" she wails in response. At least she raises her head from where it was hidden in her hands, allowing me to view her face by light and up close for the first time this evening. Her already heated cheeks turn a shade darker yet and immediately, I feel pity rise within me. I've had my fun, I guess.

So, stretching out a hand and squeezing her arm, I request, "Come, sit down here next to me and tell me everything, right from the beginning."

It takes a moment for both of us to divest ourselves of boots and coats, and curl up on my camp bed. Colette's blanket we have spread out over mine, as we have done for weeks. Similarly, we have long since adopted the custom of sleeping in our uniforms. They are the very warmest item of clothing we have, and besides, have an irritating habit of freezing solid when not kept warm by whatever little body heat we manage to create. We have all experienced the regretful sensation of having woken up in the morning to be greeted by a uniform frozen stiff during the night.

"So, tell," I prompt, giving Colette a little nudge.

With a groan, she hides her face in a pillow. But darkness lends itself to truthfulness, so it only takes a few seconds of hesitation before she starts talking, "There's hardly anything to tell, really. You were gone and I was lonely _and_ bored. And Maurice is lovely, I've never denied that. Ever since he's managed to speak a coherent sentence in my presence, I've found him to be quite funny as well. So, we spent a bit of time together and suddenly… well, you've seen that."

"Up close," I confirm with some satisfaction. Colette raises her head just long enough to consider me with one of her infamous glares.

Laughing, I put an arm around her, trying to cheer her up, "Oh, come on. It's not quite so very bad after all. If you like each other, what's wrong about that? Just because he is a little younger than you are…"

Colette, however, just heaves another sigh. "It's not even that. Really, it's… see, I was so resolved just to do my work out here. The last thing I wanted was a _romance_. I mean, how cliché is _that_?

"Sometimes, these things just happen," I remark, admittedly rather precociously for someone who's had hardly any experience with 'these things' herself. "And it would only fit the cliché if he was a doctor. But a mere private, three years your junior? I'd say you're safe from clichés, at the very least."

This serves to elicit a small smile from her. "Oh, you are probably right. But… _still_!" Frustrated, she smacks at my pillow, which I hurriedly pull out of reach.

"Do be nice to the pillow, please. It is a good, soft pillow. Incomparable to that boulder in a pillowcase I used to have back in England. I would like to keep it around a while longer yet, if you allow," I admonish.

"Sure, sure," Colette retorts and this time, she really is laughing, if probably despite herself. Even this laugh, however, quickly dies on her lips, to be replaced by yet another sigh.

Cautiously, I take her face into my hands, turn it towards me, so she has to look at me in the darkness. "What's the matter?" I ask quietly. Because this clearly isn't about Maurice's age.

Several moments pass before Colette finally answers and as she does, her voice is quiet, halting. "You know… in a way, I've always been on my own. Sure, I was fed and watered as a child and there were a good dozen cousins running about, but it can be surprisingly lonely when you're surrounded by so many people, especially when you don't truly _belong_. In consequence, I've never really needed to think about anyone but myself – until I met Aimée and she insisted on taking care of me so stubbornly I accidentally found myself doing the same thing with her. I know it sounds pathetic, but I think she might have been my first real friend in this whole world."

She falls silent, looks at me questioningly, and I make a small sound encouraging her to go on. After a short pause, she does. "When Aimée – _died_ , I decided never to care for anyone else ever again. I mean, what did I get out of it but pain, right? I was so resolved never to care for anyone but myself and then, upon returning from England, there's this stubborn _Îlienne_ in my tent, demanding that I like her."

 _Îlienne_. Island girl. That's me.

A small smile tucks at Colette's mouth and I return it instinctively. I do like the nickname, I have to admit, not least because everything sounds so much nicer in French.

"Once I realized you had managed to make me care again, I was pretty mad at myself at first. But I think I can just about manage that. One doesn't think it at first, but you're tenacious, you're able to look after yourself, possibly better than Aimée could. That's why I can do it, caring about you. Maurice, on the other hand…" Colette trails of and pulls a grimace that would have made Maurice proud.

But I think I know now where she's coming from. "He can, potentially, mean much more to you than Aimée or I ever could. Is it that?" I ask softly.

An almost imperceptible nod from her. "I'm not declaring my undying love, don't get me wrong. But I _like_ him. I like that he can make me laugh and calm me down and that he's able to see good in the world when it already appears quite dark to me. And I'm afraid that, if I let myself, I'm going to keep liking him, more and more. And I'm just not convinced that's really such a good idea."

I consider her words, turning them around in my head, checking them for their logic and any possible flaws. There's one, glaringly obvious to me, but I'm not sure it will be enough to convince Colette.

"But wouldn't it be a very sad life if you never allow anyone to be close to you?" I wonder, trying to sound nonchalant, but out of the corner of my eye, I am observing Colette closely.

"I know exactly what you're trying to do, Blythe, and I don't think it's going to work," she informs me with an indulgent smile.

Well, at any rate she should have known that a remark like that would only serve to make me try harder. Hasn't she just called me tenacious, after all? But I take my time, collect my thoughts and lay out the words in my head, for I am well aware that they have to be _good_ ones. There won't be many more opportunities for me to get this right.

Only when I can be sure to have the words under control, do I say them out loud. "Youasked about Jerry earlier, and to be honest, he's not the man he once was. He remembered us, we could talk to him, but during all the days we spent with him, he's never once been his old self. He used to be witty, eloquent, scarily clever and loved nothing more than a good discussion. Now it's… it's as if someone has made a facsimile of his body, but forgot about his personality. It's too horrible for words – and no-one can say if the old Jerry is still in there somewhere, if he'll ever be himself again or if he's forever doomed to be this pale, quiet likeness of himself."

I'm almost surprised at how emotional I get at the thought of Jerry. A tear is rolling down my left cheek, coming to hang from the tip of my nose, until I wipe it away. I'm certain that Colette doesn't miss it, but she remains silent.

"I had to write to Nan," I resume, after having collected myself. "I've been putting off writing that letter for months now, but finally I was all out of excuses. So, we sat down, Walter and I, and had to tell her that her husband might never again be the man she's known. It was the hardest letter I've ever written. Now, I don't think it will come as a total surprise to Nan, for she is clever and has probably had her own thoughts on the matter already, but I know that this letter, this _black-on-white_ , will hurt her terribly. And do you know what _else_ I know?"

Colette nods, just the tiniest of movements.

"She wouldn't change a thing. Even if he returns as little more than a broken shell and even if she had the opportunity to go back and do it differently, she wouldn't. Now, that's partly down to Nan being just as stubborn as Di and I are – we get it from our mother. But mostly it's because the bad times that are don't erase the good times that have been. We've got the choice, don't we? We can be so terrified of being hurt that we'll live our life trying to avoid it. But when we don't ever dare to take a risk we not only evade the hurt but the joy as well. Is it worth it, what do you think?" I peer at Colette in the darkness, and when she returns the gaze, she is very calm.

"You are unnervingly convincing, did you know?" she finally comments. "If that army ever needed anyone to stage a little speech and convince those soldiers to go over the top, they'd be well-advised to approach you."

" _I_ wouldn't do it," I shoot back, "And _you_ are trying to distract me."

She laughs in reply. "Ah, true. I _am_ trying to distract you. But I also meant what I said. You _are_ terribly convincing.

"So you're giving Maurice a chance?" I ask hopefully.

"At the very least, the thought of me doing so doesn't seem quite as absurd as before. How's that sound?" replies Colette, her voice sounding decidedly amused now.

I shrug. "I'll take what I can get. Baby steps, you know."

"Rather those than complete standstill," she agrees easily.

"And seeing as we've established that, do you think I might be allowed to sleep now?" I wonder, cuddling deeper into my good, soft pillow. "I've spent the whole day travelling and knowing this hospital, I'm expected back in the operating theatre come morning."

Surprised, Colette raises her head. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

"Tell me _what_?" I ask, observing her warily. Might that horrible Louise…?

"Dr MacIver has fallen ill. They've transferred him to another hospital some days ago," Colette answers. Her eyes are sympathetic.

Instinctively I sit up, let this new information sink in for a moment or two. "Is it bad?" I want to know and can hear the sorrow in my own voice. I've grown to like him, for all his odd ways.

Colette, too, sits up, so that we are on eye-level. Thoughtfully, she inclines her head, while explaining, "I don't know the details, but it did not sound life-threatening to me. Just enough for them to not want him behind an operating table."

"I can imagine he did not take kindly to being extracted from his beloved theatre," I remark and cannot help a smile at the thought.

"He screamed bloody murder! And cursed the whole French nation to hell and back – several times over," Colette confirms with a soft laugh.

Yes, that's Dr MacIver as I know him.

"I'll try and find out where they've taken him. If it's not so very far, maybe I can go and visit," I resolve.

Colette nods. "You do that. He likes you just well enough to maybe tolerate a visit from you."

Which, with regards to a man such as Dr MacIver, might be the highest praise I could hope for.

"Any idea where I'll be posted now? The other operating teams are complete, aren't they?" I wonder aloud.

"Night duty on one of the other ranks' wards," is Colette's immediate answer.

I turn to look at her. "Is that definite?"

She nods. "Yes, it's already been decided. Dr Thomas left us for England last week, so your operating team is pretty much broken up anyway. And wasn't Matron delighted to finally be able to put you back into the ranks! With night duty not being very popular, it made sense to assign it to you." She does have the decency to pull a sympathetic face.

"Well, as long as Matron's happy…" I retort with the kind of gallows humour I might not have developed out here, but which certainly has been much honed during my time in Europe.

"And when Matron is happy, we're all of us happy," confirms Colette, before flopping down back onto the mattress, pulling up both blankets to her chin.

"Sleep?" I ask, sliding down under the blankets myself, resting my tired head on good, soft pillow.

As if in reply, Colette yawns heartily. "You've still got the whole of tomorrow until your shift starts in the evening, but I do have an early start in… oh, I don't even know in how many hours. Or, in how few hours, really. Might be better not to know, in any case."

"No, sometimes it's better not to know," I affirm, trying and failing to suppress a yawn myself. They're contagious, those yawns.

"Too right. Now, may your night be restful – it will be the last night you're going to spend sleeping for the foreseeable future," is Colette's sinister reply.

For a second I consider answering in kind, but in truth, I am far too tired for it. "Good night," I thus wish placidly.

A moment passes. Then, because I might just be incorrigible, I slyly add, "Dream of Maurice."

And for the second time that day Colette smacks my arm and for the second time, she fails spectacularly in trying to stifle my laughter.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When I leave the world behind' from 1915 (lyrics and music by Irving Berlin)._


	16. Into the land of my dreams

_February 27_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France_

 **Into the land of my dreams**

Not that I'd ever admit it to Matron, but I actually _like_ being on night duty. Sure, it takes some adjustment to be awake the entire night and to sleep during the day, but once one gets used to it, there are certain advantages to it as well. Surprisingly, there's actually more time to spend during the day, as no-one sleeps for twelve hours straight, and you can get more done in the morning after night duty, than in the darkness of evening after having spent the day on the ward.

Besides, night duty has some advantages in itself. There is less personnel around and I have responsibility of an entire ward, so when an emergency arises, things can get a tad stressful. But during a normal night, when most of the patients are asleep and it's dark and quiet, it's often much calmer than at daytime. And as my sleep cycle has fully adapted after what is now over a month of night duty, I don't even struggle with staying awake anymore.

The one thing I really could do without is the cold. They say it's the coldest winter in living memory and though I don't know how much truth there is to that, I'm certainly willing to believe it. It has grown steadily colder, ever since October or November, and now, in February, temperatures have plummeted to a new low. According to Shirley, the most agreeable aspect of his training course is the fact that accommodation in Bexhill is marginally warmer than at the front. And Maurice has told us about how he and the other ambulance drivers have established shifts, because the vehicles have to be cranked every twenty minutes, day and night, to keep the engines from freezing.

In out tents, the cold is bearable due to there being a stove in each of them, but in the wards, one small stove is supposed to heat the entire hut and that's patently impossible. I have pulled my chair up to the stove, as close as possible, and whenever there's a quiet moment, I sit down, swaddle myself in a blanket and warm hands and feet over the stove in hopes of regaining some feeling in either.

The men, however, are absolutely amazing. No complaints at all, not about the cold and not about their wounds and not even about their rations, which are certainly lacking. They are fed by the French Army, while our food is provided by the CAMC and is usually both better in quality and quantity than what we have to serve our patients. But not even that, apparently, warrants a complaint from them. Instead, they are friendly and cheerful, and I wonder not for the first time how they do it.

With a quick look at my watch I decide it's time to do another round. Reluctantly, I unwrap the blanket from around my shoulders and remove myself from my place next to the stove. Rubbing my hands together for warmth, I take up my lamp and proceed to move between the beds, as quietly as possible so as not to wake anyone.

It's fairly quiet up at the front, no major offensive to speak of during the last two months, and it shows in the ailments of our patients. Their biggest enemy, right now, is not the German soldier but _Father Frost_. Sure, we still receive patients wounded by shells and bullets, but more often than not, the cold is to blame for their condition. For us, it means lots of cases of frostbite and trench feet, and apparently the hospitals operating medical wards are full to the brim with sick patients. Influenza and pneumonia are on the rise, which can hardly come as a surprise when one considers that at the front, the men are exposed to the cold mostly without shelter.

Maybe there's the reason for why they tend to sleep quite peacefully in my ward. The stove might be absolutely inadequate in my eyes, but for them, it's probably more warmth than they have felt in weeks.

Slowly, I glance at the rows of sleeping men. Two nights ago, one of them started haemorrhaging shortly after midnight – a suture torn open – but today, everything appears to be rather quiet. I've already started to move back towards my place next to the stove when I notice two dark eyes watching me through the darkness.

"You should be sleeping, Gallou," I scold softly as I come to stand at his bedside.

Gallou smiles at me. "But I am dreaming already, Sister. Please, let me dream just a bit longer."

"You're dreaming with your eyes wide open?" I ask, but cannot help the smile stealing onto my own lips.

"When I close them, I dream of bad things. But when my eyes are open, I dream of my family and my home," explains Gallou, quite as if it was the most logical thing in the world. He's speaking slowly and I know he does it for my benefit. His accent sounds foreign to my ears, making it hard for me to understand him sometimes, so he's careful to speak as slowly and intelligibly as possible.

Gallou is a big, strong man, with wild hair and a bushy beard, but as gentle as a lamb. I'm quite sure that even using just the one hand the frost has left him, he'd be able to win any fight. At the same time, however, I am absolutely certain never to have met someone who abhors the mere thought of war and fighting as much as Gallou does.

Looking around quickly, I make sure the rest of the ward is quiet, before sitting down on the side of Gallou's bed. "Do you want to tell me about your home?" I ask gently.

It might help him, to speak of home. And it might help me as well. I've been observing myself for quite some time, coaxing the patient to tell me about their life before the war. Happy, peaceful tales. Maybe it's to convince myself that there once really was such a thing as peace in this world. My own pre-war life feels more remote with each passing day, so I draw from their stories, keep them within me, to tide me over the darkest days.

"I'm Breton," Gallou says with pride in his voice. "Have you ever been to Brittany, Sister?"

"Sadly not," I reply not without some regret. "The only places I've seen of this entire country so far are this hospital, the port of Boulogne and some Parisian streets."

Gallou shakes his head and it might appear almost reproving but for his kind eyes. "You should visit Brittany, Sister. It's the most beautiful place in the world. In the past, they used to call it Aremorica. Do you know what Aremorica means?"

"I don't, actually," I admit.

"Land by the Sea," answers Gallou, "and that it truly is. It is a Land by the Sea."

"My home is a small island they once called _Abegweit_. It means _Cradled on the waves_ ," I say and suddenly, the longing for home crashes over me with such a force I find it hard to breathe.

Gallou nods approvingly. "A lovely name."

"Will you tell me of your home?" I request. Maybe tales of his home will be enough to distract me from thoughts of my own.

"I have a farm," he answers readily. "Before me, it belonged to my father, and to his father before him. When I am gone, it will pass on to my son. It is not a big farm, but for us, it is enough. We have a pair of cows, several chickens, and we grow vegetables. We have the biggest and best artichokes in all of Brittany!"

He searches my gaze and his pride is so palpable that I quickly decide to refrain from mentioning that, in my entire life, I've never heard of an 'artichoke' before. It doesn't have the sound of something I'm all that eager to try, but there's no need for Gallou to know that.

"Would you hand me my bag, Sister?" Gallou asks, sounding almost shy. He dislikes having to ask me or any other sister for assistance, because he doesn't want to be a burden. With Gallou, I realized early on, you always have to make sure he has everything he needs, for he would never ask for it himself.

I take the bag, containing his personal belongings, from where it hangs at the head end of his bed, and give it to him. Discreetly, I assist him in opening the bag and hold it while he reaches inside it with his good left hand. It takes but a moment before he pulls out a paper and hands it to me.

It's a photograph, black and white, well-thumbed, the corners folded and torn. It shows a family, grouped around a smiling Gallou.

Pointing at the woman standing next to his photo-self, Gallou introduces, "Berthe, my wife."

"My name is Bertha!" I respond, quite without thinking. They're not supposed to know our given names, but then, I'm not supposed to know about their families either, so maybe that's alright then.

"A lovely name," remarks Gallou with utter conviction.

Instinctively, I smile at him. "It is, isn't it? It's just that no-one ever calls me Bertha. I've always been called by my middle name, Marilla. Never mind my not actually liking it all that much."

"Marilla is a lovely name as well," Gallou says loyally, and I'm fairly certain he would have said that regardless of which name I had told him.

"And these are your children?" I ask, turning my attention back to the photograph.

Proudly, he nods. "Nolwenn is our oldest, she's fourteen. There's no girl prettier or cleverer in the entire village." His finger gently touches the imprint of a girl with thick braids, standing next to her mother.

The finger moves on, to a boy with a cheerful grin. "Per is ten. He can be cheeky and his teachers are not always pleased with him, but he can make anyone laugh. And this is Katell, our youngest child. She's four. She's my little sunshine."

His smile grows wistful as he looks at Katell, who can't have been more than two years old when that photo was taken. How long has it been since he has seen them, I wonder? The French soldiers get even less leave than our boys do. They hardly ever see their families, even though they are so much closer to them. It's the only thing they ever complain about.

Shaking off his wistfulness, Gallou points towards a small boy with glasses, gazing warily out of the picture. "Loïc has only just turned seven. He's quieter than the others, but he can talk to animals. They do anything he asks of them," he explains, "and this is Elouan. He's twelve already and a support to his mother. Without him, she would not be able to keep the farm. He will help me, when I go back."

He raises the stump that once was his right hand to indicate why he will need help, but I've already understood. I was in the theatre when Dr MacIver took off his hand, frozen black, shortly before New Year's Eve. Maybe that's why he's grown on me so much.

"Will you be able to continue working on the farm?" I wonder aloud, realizing a second to late how tactless the words must sound.

Gallou, however, answers easily enough. "I will be alright, Sister. Elouan will help me. Per can also do a lot, when he's not being mischievous, and Loïc will look after the animals. He loves doing that. And Nolwenn already is almost as skilful around the house as her mother is. I have the most wonderful children, you see."

I hasten to nod, but there must some doubt remaining in my eyes, which Gallou picks up upon. He leans a closer to me, indicating me to move closer as well, so our heads are just inches apart.

"Do you want me to tell you a secret?" he asks, conspiratorially. "It's good that it was the right hand I lost. When I was a small boy, my teacher used to hit me when I used my left hand to write, so I only learned doing it with my right hand. I won't be able to write anymore, but Nolwenn will help me. Her handwriting is very nice – much nicer than mine. There's no need for me to write and everything else I can do so much better using the left hand. Teachers can't hit a boy for using his left hand to carve wood after school, after all." He smiles mischievously at the thought of how he has outwitted his teachers.

"Then you just might have been lucky – or something like that," I remark and feel myself smiling as well. Not because there's anything to smile about, but because Gallou often has that effect on me.

"Why say 'something like that'?" he immediately wonders. "It _is_ lucky that God has left me my good hand. God, you see, has always had a soft spot for old Gallou."

There's so much conviction in the way he says it, so much trust in that distant, obscure, _cruel_ god, I feel my throat tighten. Pretending to have a look at the ward, I turn away for a moment, try and control myself. Taking several deep breaths, I blink away a tear threatening to fall. Only then do I turn back towards Gallou.

He's watching me, his eyes kind and understanding. "You are very young still, Sister. It is not unusual for the young to doubt. But please, don't lose your faith over everything you see here," he asks earnestly.

Slowly I nod, but I cannot really believe it, and of course, Gallou will not be fooled.

With an encouraging smile, he adds, "Come to Brittany, Sister Bertha. Come and see my land and then you will know that the same God who has created my beautiful _Breizh_ cannot be a bad God."

"If I come, will you introduce me to your family?" I reply, if only to say anything at all. My throat feels tight still and my head is swimming.

"It will be my honour," promises Gallou, his voice solemn. "I am only a farmer from Brittany and will never see your _Island cradled on the Waves_ with my own eyes. But I would feel honoured to show you my _Land by the Sea_. If you ever come to Brittany, will you please be our guest, Sister Bertha?"

I nod, impulsively reach for his hand. "That I will, my dear Gallou," I promise. "I _will_ come to _Breizh_ and meet Nolwenn and Elouan and everyone else. How does that sound?"

A wide smile blooms on Gallou's kind face, though whether it is because of my promise or because I have likely mangled the pronunciation of _Breizh_ , I do not know. At any rate, I am glad to see him smiling.

"That sounds very nice, Sister. It will be a happy day, I know. But now, I will sleep. I think I will not be dreaming of bad things tonight," he announces and sounds so utterly _sure_ I almost envy him.

"Then let them be happy dreams, my dear Gallou," I reply. One last time, I squeeze his hand, then tuck in the blanket around him. For a moment, I remain standing next to his bed, wait for him to close his eyes, before I pick up my lamp and slowly walk back towards my place by the stove. Strangely, I don't feel as cold.

Sitting next to the stove, watching over the dreams of my men, I wait for the blackness of night to give way to another morning. My thoughts, however, keep returning to what Gallou has said. There's something in him, his calmness, his steadfastness, his unwavering faith, that touches me. And I know it to be irrational, but all of a sudden I have a feeling that, if I were only to glimpse his Land by the Sea, all this would be easier to bear.

The peculiar mood Gallou and his _Breizh_ have invoked within me, stays with me throughout the night. Accordingly, I am a little distracted when handing over the ward to the sisters on day duty, and still deep in thoughts when I stroll back to our tents afterwards. I expect it to be empty and look forward to escape to my very own Land of Dreams – for somehow, like Gallou, I am quite sure my dreams won't be bad ones today – when I unexpectedly stumble upon a distraught Maurice.

"Colette… _chérie_ …" he pleads with the tent's cover. Once he notices me, however, he falls silent abruptly, his cheeks colouring. "Good morning, Sister," he mumbles in greeting.

I don't get a chance to reply, for just then a voice from within the tent cries, "Leave me _alone_!" Colette.

Nervously, Maurice scratches his head.

I take a breath. There's a sudden reluctance I feel, a spiky kind of unwillingness to be burdened by their lovers' spat. Not now, just not now, when I have only just found a small shred of peace for myself.

"What's the matter _this time_?" I ask anyway, knowing full well how gruff my voice sounds.

Maurice sighs. He's aware, I'm sure, of my having been forced to intervene between them a little too often in recent weeks. Love has not mellowed Colette. Quite on the contrary, really. Poor Maurice has to put up with a lot, to be honest.

"They found out about us," he explains, resigned.

Surprised, I raise an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea who did it?" For someone must have told on them.

"Colette thinks it might have been Sister Gagné, but she's only saying that because she doesn't like Sister Gagné. Truth is, we don't know," Maurice answers.

Nodding slowly, I ask, "What's going to happen now?" Because something _is_ going to happen. Otherwise he would not be standing here, in front of the tent, pleading with Colette.

"I'm being transferred. Relationships between personnel are forbidden, so one of us has to leave and it's going to be me. They're sending me to work with a field ambulance close to the front," he explains and all of a sudden, he looks vulnerable and so very young, much younger than his nineteen years. The sight of him is the only thing stopping me from turning around and leaving.

"She won't like that," I remark, matter-of-factly. It's certainly not a question, but Maurice nods anyway. Then he hangs his head.

"Might not be the best moment to tell her that I've received my marching orders as well, what do you think?" I wonder, surprised at how impassive my voice sound.

The smaller, crueller part within me is almost pleased at the thought of going in there and telling Colette just that. This entire situation is a discord, a shrill and jarring tone, interrupting my previous calmness, and I don't _want_ to have to deal with it. But then I remind myself that she is my friend and that she means a lot to me and that she's really only behaving like that because she's scared of losing Maurice. To be an ambulance driver with a field ambulance at the frontline is not the safest of positions, to put it like that.

"Where are you going? And when?" enquires Maurice, probably glad at being able to focus on something that isn't his own problem.

"Matron expects the arrival of several French-Canadian nursing sisters within the next one or two weeks, so she's decided to get rid of us 'English girls'. For me, it's on to No. 1 Casualty Clearing Station," I explain.

The look Maurice directs at the tent's cover, still firmly closed, is almost apprehensive. "So you're moving closer to the front line as well," he remarks and I know immediately what he is thinking. Colette won't much like this either.

I nod, but before I can manage to say anything in reply, the cover gets thrown to the side and Colette busts out. The vicious gaze she directs first at him, then at me, leaves absolutely no doubt about the fact that she must have heard every word. Without saying anything, she storms past us.

Another sigh from Maurice. "I'd better go after her," he murmurs with a vague gesture in the direction of Colette's retreating form.

"You do that," I agree with a nod.

It should be me, going after her. I know that full well. I am her friend and she is hurt and needs someone to comfort her. And I _will_ do it. Later, when she's calmer and I'm less reluctant and we'll be able to properly talk about this. But now, right at this moment, I feel neither the inclination nor enough strength to take care of it.

So I leave it to Maurice and step into our tent instead. The stove is still burning hot and, after having disposed of veil and shoes, I slip into my bed, passably warm as it is. I pull the blankets up over my chin, close my eyes and desperately wish to dream of something beautiful for once, to dream of my _Island cradled on the Waves_ or Gallou's blessed _Land by the Sea_. But I think it will elude me now.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'There's a Long Long Trail A-Winding' from 1914 (lyrics by Stoddard King, music by Alonzo Elliott)._


	17. If you want to find the captain

_March 11_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Aubigny-en-Artois, Frankreich_

 **If you want to find the captain**

"Where shall I put those?" asks the orderly, pointing at two boxes by his feet.

"What's in them?" I enquire, dusting off my hands and walking over to him.

He gives a shrug. "Bandages, gauze, things like that."

"Best just put them over there, then. I'll clear them out later on," I say as I motion towards a place in the back of the tent. He nods, picks up the boxes again and moves past me.

Meanwhile, I take a moment to survey the tent. It's pretty chaotic still, but considering that last month, there was nothing here but frozen earth, and that I've only begun my work a few days ago, I'm actually quite satisfied with how it looks.

The matron in Saint Cloud was apparently so eager to get rid of us English-speaking sisters that I caused no small surprise by arriving at No 1. Casualty Clearing Station in Aubigny-en-Artois in early March already. Much more so, as there _was_ no Casualty Clearing Station at that point. The unit only arrived a short time before I did and still has to be set up before anyone can even think of caring for patients. Right now, huts are being built and supply lines laid out and tents erected and everything done for all this to hopefully resemble a hospital in the foreseeable future.

The CCS is 'under canvas', meaning that we have no existing buildings for our use but have to rely on specially erected huts and tents. The reason for this is a simple one: there are already two English CCS in Aubigny and they have claimed every suitable building for themselves. From what I've heard, they have even installed a ward in the village church! I can only guess as to what the good people of Aubigny have had to say to _that_ …

Aubigny itself really is only a small village. It looks to be fairly typical for this country, or at least this region. There's the market place, a main road, two or three side roads, some small stores and the church is the biggest building in the entire village. As for inhabitants, I'd say it's somewhat more populous than the Glen, maybe a thousand souls or a little less. It is, however, far less spacious. Low, densely built brick houses press against the roads with no proper gardens to be seen. Even the farms are part of the village, fitted neatly between other buildings. For me, used to the wide Canadian landscapes, it's a curious sight and a curious decision to voluntarily live that close to your neighbours.

For the French though, that seems to be the norm, so there's nothing really remarkable about Aubigny, compared to countless similar villages all over the Artois. It is, however, conveniently located directly by the rail tracks leading to the coast. And thus, on the edge of the village, north of the rail tracks and close to the small train station, three CCS are situated – and rumour has it that a fourth will arrive shortly. Taken together, all CCS have a capacity of over 1000 beds and the personnel to take care of that many patients. The population of Aubigny has therefore easily more than doubled by our being here!

"How are you doing? Do you need anything?" a voice interrupts my thoughts.

I raise my head, squint into the light falling in through the tent's entrance. There's a figure there, contrasting sharply against the light, but only once he steps inside the tent, letting the tent cover fall, do I recognize Dr Murray.

"It's fine. I'm getting by nicely," I answer readily.

Dr Murray is the doctor responsible for the receiving tent, where any and all new patients are examined before being sent on to other wards. He's quite young for such a responsibility, probably not even thirty yet, but I guess that in war, age is but a number.

When I arrived some days ago, a little confused to find myself on a construction site instead of in a hospital, the harassed-looking commanding officer sent me to Dr Murray and told me to help him prepare the receiving tent. And I guess I can consider myself lucky in that Dr Murray actually takes an interest in what is happening in this tent instead of just letting me do all the work.

Currently, he is expertly taking in his surroundings while walking over to me. "Quite the chaos we've put you in," he remarks with a friendly smile.

"Trial of fire," I shrug, carefully I setting a small box of thermometers on a shelf.

"Well, you're doing a good job of it. I can almost tell what it's supposed to be when finished," he notes. His eyes have an amused twinkle to them.

I laugh in reply. „That certainly is good to know! Actually, I figured it would be best to prepare the most important things first, so that, in theory, we _could_ receive patients as soon as possible, should the need arise. The details we can just as well take care of later on. Oh, and speaking of details… give me a moment…" I pull a small bag from between two boxes, feeling Dr Murray's observant gaze upon me.

"Here, I thought it might make sense to prepare some of these bags, fill them with the most important things. Dressings, scissors, scalpels, syringes… So that, in an emergency, we can just grab a bag instead of always having to find a place for the supply cart," I explain.

Carefully, Dr Murray inspects the bag's contents. He is careful in just about anything he does, I've noticed. When he hands the bag back to me, he nods approvingly. "A very good idea. We often have to move fast, especially in a receiving tent. Would you mind preparing some of these bags, once the worst chaos in here is under control?"

"Sure, no problem," I nod. I work to keep my face impassive, but to be honest, I'm quite pleased with myself. The idea of the supply bags came to me in bed a few nights ago, but I wasn't entirely sure whether it was a good one.

With one last look through the tent, Dr Murray turns to leave. "I'll leave you to your work then. Should you need anything else…" he begins.

"… then I shall find myself an orderly to procure it for me," I finish for him, returning the smile he sends my way.

After Dr Murray has left, I go back trying to get the tent in order. As long as I'm moving about, I won't get cold, at the very least. Softly singing to myself as I work, I bent over another box, just as a new voice calls out, "Sister?"

Straightening, I look over towards the tent's entrance, where I notice two men, now coming closer hesitantly. They are obviously trying very hard to look confident and suave, but their faltering movements and darting eyes belie their nervousness. I'm quite certain never to have seen them before. Their uniforms, at any rate, are Canadian, free of any rank insignia, marking them as privates. On their upper arms, I spy a red rectangular patch, topped by a green triangle. Were they part of the medical corps, their patch would be a white circle with a red cross inside, so they probably belong to some kind of fighting unit.

Whatever one's opinion on uniforms, no-one could deny that they do have their advantages when you're trying to get information about another person at the very first glance.

"How can I help you?" I ask them, as both men stop a couple of steps in front of me. Though, on closer inspection, I hardly would call them _men_. They're boys really. One of them has such a baby face it can't possibly ever have come in contact with a razor.

They exchange a quick glance, both obviously hoping the other will decide to answer and neither doing so. If I weren't so very busy, I might even have found them amusing.

"This is a CCS, isn't it?" one of them finally says. He has some sparse hairs growing on his upper lip that, with some benevolence, might be called a moustache.

"Well, it will be. But we'll likely only begin receiving patients some time next month", I explain. I'm still not sure why they are here, to be honest.

Another look is exchanged between them. "Hm… well, we… we've been thinking… we've been thinking you might be able to have a look at… ah, well, at us?" Moustache mumbles and even in the semi-darkness of the tent I can see him blushing furiously.

Warily, I consider them. "What's the matter with you then?" I enquire, raising an eyebrow.

A pause. One second. Two. „We haven't been feeling well. Not since church service this morning", replies Moustache.

Hmm? How does church service enter into this? Did they spontaneously develop some sort of hypersensitivity against sermons?

"And in what form does that discomfort show itself?" I probe sceptically.

Beardless, in any case, seems to have lost the ability to speak, for he stubbornly refuses to utter even a single word. Thus, it's Moustache answering again, "We're… we're feeling unwell… generally speaking."

"As I have mentioned before, we do not yet treat patients. Have you seen the medical officer of your unit?" I further question.

They did not expect this particular query, that's perfectly evident from the identical looks of dismay on their faces. Once more, when Moustache finally does speak up, far too many seconds have passed for his answer to be anything but _un_ truthful. "He… he wasn't… he wasn't… we couldn't find him," he splutters, explaining just about nothing in the process.

This entire situation is clearly suspicious, there's no getting around that. And in truth, I want to send them on their way– I _should_ be sending them in their way, to be honest – but even as I start to refuse their query, there's a tiny little voice piping up in my head, voicing concern. What if they're _really_ not feeling well? Sure, they're acting strangely, but maybe that's down to them feeling embarrassed about their illness? Usually, nurses are not burdened with it, but there's no nurse out there who hasn't seen at least one case of venereal disease yet. Now, I have no intention of doing an appropriate examination to verify that theory, not in the least because that would be quite impossible in my chaotic tent and my knowledge about _that_ particular subject is very limited indeed, but it won't hurt to take their temperature and do a quick, cursory examination, would it?

"Alright then, sit down, both of you," I invited them with a sigh, pointing towards two wooden crates in the middle of the tent.

They hurry to do as they're told, causing Beardless to almost fall over his own feet. Discreetly rolling my eyes, I turn away, taking two thermometers out of the box on the shelf, and a stethoscope out of another box further to the back of the tent. I don't have a blood pressure cuff at hand, but they don't appear to have problems with their blood pressure anyway.

I hand them each a thermometer to put into their mouths, which they do without protest, while I check pulse and breathing. Just as expected, there's nothing out of the ordinary. They're bursting with health, and if their temperatures are a little on the lower end, that's easily explained by the persistently cold weather. Truth is, I can't find even the tiniest hint of an illness, not even of a common cold.

They are, therefore, obviously trying to play a trick on me. Why, I can only guess, but I didn't grow up with three elder brothers for nothing. Three can play at _that_ game.

Bending over the thermometers, I frown deeply, making thoughtful little noises. It takes a moment or two, but then Moustache asks, "Is something the matter, Sister?" His voice, all of a sudden, sounds worried and Beardless, too, looks up at me alarmed.

This, they didn't expect, did they?

"Well…" I start, making sure to draw out the word, "It does look like a typical case of _Morbus Mentiri_ to me."

If my two would-be conmen understood any Latin, they'd know that 'mentiri' denotes someone telling a fib (to put it kindly). That's about all I myself can manage on basis of those half-forgotten Queen's lessons, and what's more, I'm fairly certain that the grammatical form is all wrong, but I've never been particular good at declination, and with this audience, no-one is liable to call me out on it.

Curiously, I observe the two privates. Uneasiness is written plainly across their features. Moustache swallows hard. "What kind of disease is that, Sister?" he asks, voice shaky.

"How to explain…?" I murmur, pretending to be deep in thought. Out if the corner of my eye, however, I am observing them closely, seeing that very last bit of confidence literally drip from their faces. Beardless even appears to be trembling a little and suddenly, I feel bad for them. They've had their punishment, I'd say.

Just as I move to release them from their worry, there's a new voice, for the third time this day, coming from the tent's entrance. "Smith! Young!" it calls out, in a tone clearly used to giving orders.

I have to admit, if grudgingly, that for a moment I am startled to such a degree that both thermometers slip from my hands. I watch them fall and break and suppress as sigh. Just two further sacrifices to fill up the thermometer graveyard of my life.

The effect on Moustache and Beardless – or Smith and Young, I guess – is distinctly more pronounced than me being merely startled. Moustache is on his feet in a second, inadvertently slapping the stethoscope from my hands as well. Beardless, on the other hand, slumps down. I have absolutely no doubt that he'd pay any price to become invisible right at this very moment.

"Captain!" gasps Moustache, hurrying to perform a salute. As his uniform is still half-open from when I checked his breathing, he makes for a sight more comical than respectful.

"What are you two doing here?" demands the figure standing in the tent's entrance, decidedly _not_ sounding friendly. Squinting, I try to discern a little more, but the light shining in from the outside makes it all but impossible. The captain, same as Dr Murray not so long ago, is just a black, featureless figure against the light. Unlike Dr Murray, however, he makes no move to step closer and reveal more of himself.

Beardless whimpers and Moustache freezes, hand still raised in salute. If Morbus Mentiri was enough to unsettle then, they look downright scared now. For a moment that has me confused, but then I realize that this entire situation can easily be constructed as an attempt at desertion. Now, I'm quite certain that's not what they intended at all, but it would be an easy case, alleging they were pretending to be sick to avoid being send up the line. And such a case could only ever end badly for them.

Seeing as they make no attempt to defend themselves or say anything at all, really, and as the captain is still only a threatening shadow looming against the light, giving nothing away, it's up to me to take a few steps closer to him.

"Sir," I address him respectfully. "These privates felt unwell and were unable to find the MO of their unit, which is why they turned to us for assistance. They were unaware of this CCS not yet being operational."

"Is that so? 'Felt unwell', did they? What's the matter with them, then?" retorts the captain, voice mocking.

My mind is blank. I know that my time window to come up with a believable answer is closing rapidly, but I can't think of anything. I need some symptoms to explain them being here without being in need of further treatment, but… nothing. "Well…" I say, mostly to gain some more time, even as I'm aware of the captain probably seeing through my attempt at diversion.

Unfortunately, Beardless choses this particular moment to break his vow of silence. Powerless, I watch as he jumps to his feet, calling out, "Morbus Mentiri, Sir!"

It's all I can do to suppress a groan. I'd like to throttle him!

"Morbus _Mentiri_ ", iterates the captain and there's really no need for him to stress the first word as he does. I already know _he_ does understand Latin.

For a second or two, no-one says a thing.

"What do you say, Sister – is Morbus Mentiri a serious illness?" asks the captain, breaking the silence. His voice, suddenly, sounds mildly interested, even conversational.

Uncertain, I look from his figure to the privates and back again. What, exactly, is he trying to imply?

He, however, just waits patiently for me to answer, and I can feel the privates' eyes on me as well. I have to say _something_. "Yes, well…" I begin cautiously, before steeling myself. „No, actually I wouldn't consider it a serious illness. In most cases, symptoms subside by themselves in relatively short a time. Treatment is hardly ever necessary."

"But could it not also take become chronic?" wonders the captain. There's a new tone to his voice I can't quite pinpoint. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost say he's sounding… amused?

Taking a deep breath, I answer, "Well, there have been chronic cases but these have been down to certain… prerequisites, which I am sure do not apply here."

The captain nods slowly. "And would an infection with Morbus Mentiri prevent a private from taking part in training?" he further enquires.

Quickly, I shake my head. "No, the illness does not cause any limitations when it comes to training or – or frontline duty."

I have a sure feeling of only understanding maybe half of this conversation anymore. Beardless and Moustache, at any rate, have had a look of utter confusion about them for quite some time now. Only the captain is, apparently, still in total control of the situation.

If only I could see his face!

"And judging from your professional experience, would playing football be conducive to convalescence?" asks the captain, his face remaining shrouded in shadows.

Playing football? _What_?

"I… well, I…" to my chagrin, I realize, I'm stammering. "I don't think… well, I don't think that playing football would be… beneficial."

"No football then," the captain repeats thoughtfully. "What about kitchen duty?"

I pause. Are we negotiating their punishment right now? Is _that_ what we're doing?

"Kitchen duty is fine," I respond, trying to fill the words with conviction. If kitchen duty is the worst they're getting out of this, they can consider themselves lucky, I guess.

The captain abruptly turns back towards the privates and his voice is back to its commanding tone. "You've heard her, you two! Two weeks of kitchen duty and they'll have to do without your participation in the upcoming game. And now see that you get yourself back to barracks _right_ this instance."

The last, clearly, was an order, and is understood as such. Beardless and Moustache – Young and Smith – both move into action at once. They sprint through the tent, only pause in front of the captain to salute, and are apparently eager to leave this entire situation – and his presence – as soon as possible.

They have almost managed, when he calls them back. "One moment. Have you said thanks?"

Startled, they turn around. "Thank you, Sister," mumbles Moustache. Beardless, standing next to him, nods vigorously.

„Quite alright", I reply, try for a smile. The captain dismisses them with a tiny movement of the hand, and off they run.

I, meanwhile, bend down to retrieve the fallen stethoscope. It appears to have survived unscathed, which isn't true for the thermometers. They're just a mess of glass splinters and mercury beads.

As I survey what's left of the thermometers, a voice kindly enquires, "Are you in need assistance, by any chance?"

Abruptly, I raise my head. Having anticipated for the captain to have left with the privates, I am surprised to see him standing there still, a black figure against the light.

I straighten, shaking my head. "No, it's just two broken thermometers. Nothing to worry about." Though, this time, it's _his_ fault, isn't it, that they're broken? He startled me into letting them fall, after all.

"Good to hear," he replies, but quite suddenly, he sounds a little distracted. Not as in-control as he's been earlier.

Silently I wait for him to continue, and after a few moments, he does. "Can knowledge of this – _situation_ stay between us?" And for the first time, I have a feeling he's speaking openly.

"Of course. I see no reason to tell anyone about what happened here," I reply, matter-of-fact.

Nodding slowly, the captain adds, "If any of this is brought to the attention of higher authorities, I have to officially report them and then it's out of my hands. We are preparing for… for an offensive. When it becomes known that they have been here, pretending to be sick, there will be people out there trying to allege an attempted desertion. And if that happens, it might be their lives on the line."

A cold shiver runs down my back. Of course I've heard about deserters being executed, but still… an army shooting its own soldiers… it's brutal.

"I won't say a thing," I promise.

"I know," replies the captain, not missing a beat.

For a moment I wonder how he _can_ be sure, but then I just shrug it off. Instead, I remark, "I still haven't figured out why they came here in the first place. It certainly wasn't because they felt unwell. They're perfectly healthy."

This garners a soft laugh from the captain. "No Morbus Mentiri then?" he wonders and I have a sure feeling he's teasing me. Just to be sure, I cast a cool look his way. How it is received I cannot tell, however, as his face is still shrouded in shadow.

"From what Moles, the third member in their unholy trinity, has told me when I caught him trying to give us the slip as well, they've somehow learned that there's a Canadian CCS newly stationed here. We're currently posted to Cambligneul, which is maybe a half-an-hour march away. We gave them the afternoon off after church service this morning and I think one of them had the brilliant idea of feigning sickness to come here," he explains.

"Well, yes, but – _why_?" I persist.

Another laugh. "Honestly? I reckon they just wanted to see a girl from home again. Totally, harmless, I promise. They're nice boys, if inclined to make foolish decisions."

"You can say _that_ again!" I retort, myself now laughing.

"Fortune favours the foolish," he replies with a shrug. "And they certainly were fortunate. Both in me finding them so quickly and in the nurse they encountered. Isn't that right, Sister Blythe?"

It takes a moment for my mind to catch up with his words. Then my head swivels around to stare at him, aghast.

"How…?" I murmur.

And only now, finally, does he take the last few steps inside the tent. The cover falls shut behind him and the beam of light disappears. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but once I've gotten used to the semi-darkness, I can see his face. And had the thermometers not already perished dishonourably on the ground, they certainly would have done so now.

"Hello, Rilla," Kenneth Ford greets me with a shameless grin.

Had he called me Spider, I would not have been more incensed.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire' from 1914 (source unknown)._


	18. Perhaps you wonder who I am

_March 13_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Aubigny-en-Artois, France_

 **Perhaps you wonder who I am**

A shadow falls across me and as I raise my eyes from my letter, I see Dr Murray smiling down at me.

"News from your family?" he enquires kindly.

"No, this one's from a friend of mine. She's a nursing sister as well. We worked together in the last hospital I was posted to before coming here," I answer, nodding to the letter in my hand.

Colette, as expected, did not easily forgive either Maurice or myself for leaving her, never mind us having no actual say in this. But with Colette, it's usually emotions that override rational sense. Her new roommate, a fortyish woman from the Gaspé-peninsula, is already being pulled to pieces in her letters, and she vocally blames my departure for having to endure her snores each night. But as of this letter, she's back to calling me _Îlienne_ , so here's hoping I'll be forgiven before long.

"Good news, then?" asks Dr Murray. "You're looking quite pleased."

"Oh, well. The surgeon I worked with over there was ill and hospitalized. I had wanted to go visit him, but that didn't work out. And now I've just learned that he's recovered. I was quite worried for him, so it's good to know he's better," I explain.

"Good news indeed," agrees Dr Murray. A beat, then he adds, "You did duty as a theatre nurse?"

I nod, cautiously. "Not for very long, I'm afraid. But Dr MacIver was so kind as to teach me some things." I don't want anyone to think I'm a trained theatre nurse when there's still so much left to learn.

"That Dr MacIver wouldn't be Dr _Alastair_ MacIver by any chance?" wonders Dr Murray.

"Yes, him," I nod, regarding him quizzically. "Do you know him?"

Slowly, he shakes his head. "Not personally. But I've heard a lot about him. He is well-known among surgeons and physicians in Canada."

"And rightfully so! I've seen him perform near miracles while operating. More than once I was sure the patient wouldn't make it and yet, Dr MacIver managed to save him!" Only when I see a smile sneak onto Dr Murray's face do I realize I'm gushing, and quickly stop myself.

"Sorry," I murmur instead, lowering my head from embarrassment.

"Please don't feel you have anything to apologise for. I would consider myself lucky to be able to work alongside the great Dr MacIver," declares Dr Murray. "Though if rumours are to be believed, he isn't the easiest of persons to work with." His smile deepens and as I quickly look up at him, I see his eyes crinkle.

I return the smile instinctively. "He _is_ a little eccentric," I admit, "but I liked him. And I'd like to believe that he wasn't altogether unhappy with my work either."

According to Colette at least, he wasn't very enthused when upon his return to the hospital, he found both his anaesthetist and his theatre nurse gone. Naturally, that's mostly down to him having to work with a French-speaking sister once more, but I hope he also did like working with me personally as well.

"I have no doubts about that," assures Dr Murray without so much as a hesitation.

I accept the compliment with an inclination of the head, even as I silently wonder how he wants to be the judge of that, really. So far, the only abilities I've been able to use in this CCS are those I need for organising and setting up the receiving tent. Except for Beardless and Moustache, we haven't had a single patient yet.

Just as I try to come up with something to say in return, a voice calls over to us. "Zachary! Come here for a second?" I turn my head and see one of the other doctors standing by a hut, motioning for Dr Murray to join him.

"Well, it sure looks like my break is done," Dr Murray says apologetically. "I'll leave you to your letters then." He nods to the stack of letters sitting next to me on the bench. One advantage of being part of my family is that you can never want for letters.

Quickly, I nod. "Of course. Will you be around to look at the tent later on?"

"Later," he confirms. For a moment, I have a feeling he wants to add something else, but then, with a slight shake of his head, he merely turns and heads over to his colleague, not looking back.

I turn back to Colette's letter, but once more, I don't get a chance to finish it. Just as I have started reading the third page, a new voice enquires, "News from home?"

Slowly, I raise my head to regard Ken Ford with a haughty gaze. I still haven't forgiven him for the joke he allowed himself at my expense.

As he sees this, he raises his hands in mock-defence, laughing unashamedly. "You can't still be mad at me because of Sunday!" he declares with usual confidence.

"And what if I am?" I retort coolly, turning back to my letter.

"Well, that would be very unfortunate indeed," he assures, sounding decidedly _un_ apologetic. His voice is a lot closer now and as I move my head a tiny fraction, I realize he's sat down next to me on the bench. Currently, he is craning his neck to catch a glimpse of my letter. Quickly, I refold the pages.

He draws back a little. "Sorry, sorry," still with that smirk of his.

"Are you apologising for that trick you played on me on Sunday or for trying to read my mail?" I enquire archly, even as I wonder why I'm even talking to him at all.

"Both, if it'll make you feel any better," he retorts, not missing a beat. I just roll my eyes in response. When has Ken Ford ever been serious, after all?

I make a move to get back to my letter, hoping he'll just go away if ignored, but he reaches out and covers my hand with his, stalling my motions. For a second I look down at them, glove on glove, before pulling out my hand from beneath his.

"If I were to make an offer of peace, would you accept it?" he suddenly asks and I can't tell whether he realizes the irony of it, considering just where we are.

Warily, I consider him. The smirk is gone, at the very least, even as the eyes still glint amusedly. "Well…I suppose so," I reply, drawing out the words to leave no mistake about my general unwillingness.

Not that that would ever bother Ken. The moment I agree to his offer, he leans back into a relaxed stance, regarding me openly. "You look almost grown-up in that nursing garb of yours," he informs me.

I suppress a sigh. "More grown-up than your behaviour at any rate," I point out drily, shaking my head slightly – whether at him or myself I don't even know.

He, unconcerned, is back to smirking. With a nod of his head, he indicates the letter in my hand. "So, any news?"

For a second, I consider not answering at all, but I suppose it's easier to just do it and get it over with. Once he's gotten what he's here for, maybe he'll just go away.

So – "Una got married last month," I provide, consciously choosing to share the one piece of information he'll be least interested in.

"Una Meredith?" he asks, mildly surprised.

Really, it's not as if either of us knows another Una, is it?

"Una Arnold now," I correct him. "She's married Fred Arnold. Do you know the Arnolds?"

He considers this momentarily, before shaking his head. "Never heard of them," he admits easily.

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" I reply thoughtfully. "Reverend Arnold took over the Methodist church only a few months before the war began. You haven't been in Glen since then, have you?"

Of course, I know very well he hasn't set foot on the island since Jem and Faith's wedding and that was in July of 1913, but it's not like I'd ever admit to that knowledge.

"No. Mostly, I've been here," he confirms, before a sudden grin appears on his face. "So, Una's the wife of a Methodist minister now? I bet Miss Cornelia had a few things to say about that!" The thought appears to amuse him.

I hurry to shake my head. "The Reverend is her father-in-law. Fred, her husband, works for the government in Charlottetown. Nothing of any importance though, if Nan is to be believed. But Una is keeping house for the Reverend now, so that's probably quite enough to shock Miss Cornelia."

"Ah, you bet it was!" Ken retorts cheerfully. "Isn't there a Mrs Reverend then? Or does Una have to share the kitchen with a draconian mother-in-law?"

Once more, I shake my head. "Mrs Reverend died in early February, as far as I know. She's been ill for a long time, actually. I can hardly remember ever seeing her around because she was bedridden most of the time. Something to do with her kidneys, according to Dad."

"And the moment she's six feet under, her son goes and marries the daughter of the rival minister?" Ken enquires with a laugh.

" _Rival minister_?" I repeat, incredulous. "By God, you really have been here for too long!"

He nods. "That I am." His voice is calm, matter-of-fact, but there's a slight edge to it. A steeliness that jars with his otherwise jovial mood.

It makes me feel uncomfortable all of a sudden, so I hasten to speak, "His mother's death wasn't the reason for their marriage, by the way. It was only that she didn't want him to join up and as he's their only surviving child, he acquiesced so as not to worry her and cause a further deterioration of her health. Or, that's what Faith wrote, at any rate."

"And once she was dead, her health was inconsequential, of course. Makes sense," nods Ken. He says this as easily as only one well-acquainted with death ever could. He's been here for longer than any of our boys save Jem, I suddenly realize. He joined up right at the beginning, so, same as Jem, must have come to England in October 1914 and to France the following February. More than two years ago.

Gently, I shake my head, trying to clear it of such thoughts. He regards me curiously, so obviously hasn't missed it, but doesn't ask. Instead, he allows me to finish my story of Una Meredith's marriage, even as I am sure that we're neither of us terribly interested in it. "Anyway, Fred joined up shortly after his mother had passed away and two days later, he and Una were married. And that's how she came to keep house at the Methodist manse while the Presbyterian one found itself deprived of all its children save little Bruce."

"Shouldn't Nan be living there? And her sprog?" Ken wonders.

"Connie. Her name is Connie," I correct, pursing my lips. "And yes, she probably should be living there, seeing as Faith and her children are at Ingleside, but… well, you know Nan."

"True," Ken confirms, somewhat distracted as he fumbles with his coat pocket and finally, pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

He offers it to me, but I decline with shake of the head. Shrugging, he takes out a cigarette for himself, lights it up and takes a long drag.

"How's the rest of them, then?" he asks. "Walt's missionizing in England now, I've heard, and Jem's still stuck in Greece, isn't he? Poor devil."

"Yes, he's still over there. His letters are getting more frustrated by the month, but there's no helping it, I guess. Shirley, if you're interested, is currently taking an officers' training course in England," I report.

Surprised, Ken turns to me, blowing smoke into the cold March air. "Shirley? An officer?" His voice is pure disbelief.

I consider him through narrowed eyes. "Why wouldn't he be?"

Ken shrugs. "I have complete faith in Shirley's abilities to build things. I just can't picture him leading anyone," he explains matter-of-factly.

Truth is, I should probably agree with him and, what's more, I know Shirley definitely would. But truth or not, I will not leave my brother's honour undefended. So, I snap at him, "And who made you the expert on such matters?"

"I have a couple of years of experience in being an officer," Ken remarks, raising both eyebrows, "nine of them, if you'd like to know. Longer still, when we count the time I spend in the Cadet Corps. And they made me captain in October '15, so I can't be doing that bad a job after all."

"Or maybe they were just _that_ desperate?" I shoot back.

He just laughs good-naturedly. "Well, they probably really are, considering they're making an officer out of Shirley of all people!"

I roll my eyes, making sure he notices. But seeing as he's right, technically speaking, I can't really argue that point. Instead, I pick at something else he's said, "How can you claim to have been an officer for nine years anyway? It _feels_ longer, but this war isn't even three years old. And what's a Cadet Corps anyway?"

"Cadet Corps, my darling Miss Blythe, exist at some schools to provide the boys – or cadets – with basic military training. It's quite the norm in England, but we had one at the UCC as well," explains Ken, sounding quite as if I should have known that, when really, what interest do I have in the Cadet Corps?

I do know, however, that UCC is short for the Upper Canada College, the most genteel school in Toronto, maybe even in Canada. It's a boys' school, naturally. What Eton and Harrow are to England, the UCC is to Canada. No question of which school Ken Ford attended before moving on to the University of Toronto. He's studied something boring, as far as I can remember. Economics and something to do with political sciences? Not that I care, obviously.

"Still doesn't explain your claim of having been an officer for nine years," I point out coolly.

"Doubting that, are you?" Ken retorts with that usual grin of his. "I joined the militia after school. _The Queen's Own Rifles_. And thus, I became an officer long before the murder of Franz Ferdinand was but a spark in the head of Gavrilo Princip."

I'd like to ask who Gavrilo Princip is, but don't want to give him the satisfaction. "I thought you worked for the family firm before the war?" I ask instead. "I didn't know you were in the army even then."

Ken, however, just brushes it aside with a wave of the hand. "Who's talking about an army? Not me, certainly. It was a militia, if that. More of a civil defence union, really. Or, if we're being very honest, something akin to a holiday camp. We met up for a couple of weekends over the year and an additional week or two during the summer and played at war. No resemblance whatsoever to the real thing, naturally."

No. I can't envision military training to be very similar to real war either. Simply put, I don't consider anyone in the military to be that imaginative.

"Speaking of reality – how's Jerry doing?" Ken asks, abruptly changing the subject.

Through lowered lashes, I glance at him. His cigarette has almost completely burned down, the ashes coming close to searing his fingers, yet he takes another drag. At the front, cigarettes are worth more than gold.

"That depends… What have you heard about Jerry?" I phrase my words cautiously. Nan has asked us to keep knowledge of Jerry's condition within the family, for fear of people judging him.

What Nan herself makes of it, I don't really know. Faith has written that, upon reading Walter's and my letter, she reacted very calmly, almost emotionless, informing the family of its content in clipped tones and then declining to discuss the matter further. Only at night, writes Faith, does she hear her cry.

"I went up to see him during my last leave," Ken answers, his voice sober. His eyes meet mine and I know he knows why I asked. I should have guessed, maybe, that he'd be informed. The Fords _are_ family, and he's Walter's best friend.

"When did you see him?" I ask.

A shrug. "Some time in November."

"Walter and I visited him in January," I say, hesitatingly. "He was… not well. But you've seen him. You should know."

Slowly, Ken nods. "I was hoping he might be feeling better by now," he replies and for once, he is serious.

"Not very. I'm in contact with the doctor responsible for his treatment but… his condition is quite unchanged. The doctor says he needs more time," I answer softly.

"Then let's hope they'll give him the time he needs," mutters Ken.

He is frowning now and I know why. Right now, Jerry is getting the kind of treatment that might be the best the army has to offer. But there's no telling when the army will become impatient with him – and what's going to happen then.

"Is everything alright, Sister Blythe?" a voice interrupts before I get the chance to reply.

Both Ken and I turn at the same moment, beholding Dr Murray, who is approaching us with long strides. Instinctively, I rise and, out of the corners of my eyes, see Ken get up as well, though slower than I did. He takes on last drag of his cigarette, then drops the butt, just millimetres long at this point, to the ground and grinds it under the heels of his riding boots.

"It's fine," I reassure, as Dr Murray has reached us. "Captain Ford is a friend of the family. He's here to… why _are_ you here, anyway?"

Quizzically, I look up at Ken, but he is gazing at Dr Murray instead. They're appraising each other, taxing even.

"Captain Ford," Dr Murray greets, voice reserved. "How may we help you?"

"Oh, _you_ can't," Ken replies easily. "Rilla here – or _Sister Blythe_ , that is – was kind enough to assist two of my men a couple of days ago. They were feeling unwell." His eyes twinkle at me and I cannot help a smile at the memory of Morbus Mentiri.

Dr Murray, however, is frowning. "This CCS is not yet operational and does not receive patients at this point," he points out stiffly.

Ken gazes at our surroundings. "No, I can see that," he retorts drily. "This is evidently more of a building site than a hospital. Where are they housing you, by the way? Not among this chaos, I hope?"

This is addressed to me, and I hurry to answer, "No, we're sharing accommodations with the nurses in one of the English CCS down the road, No. 30 CCS. And they're planning on erecting Nissen huts for us sisters soon."

"Our personnel are well-cared for. Nothing you'd need to worry about," Dr Murray adds, brow still deeply furrowed.

Ken just shrugs, unconcerned. "You asked why I came here?" he enquires instead.

"That would interest me, yes," Dr Murray confirms, voice brittle.

"I come on behalf of the two privates, whom Rilla – _Sister Blythe_ – assisted. They would like to request her presence at a concert my unit is organizing in a few days, to express their gratefulness at her speedy and kind help, _despite_ the CCS not being operational yet," answers Ken.

Surprised, I look at him. "Moustache and Beardless? Really?"

Ken laughs. "What was that?"

I feel my cheeks grow warm. "Moustache and Beardless," I repeat, reluctantly. "They didn't tell me their names and I had to call them something, after all."

"Well, Beardless is certainly fitting for Young, but Moustache might be a bit of an euphemism where Smith is concerned, don't you think?" Ken comments, clearly amused.

I shrug it off. "But you _did_ know who I was talking about. But now – you mentioned a concert?"

Before Ken can answer, however, Dr Murray steps in. "She can hardly attend a concert in some soldiers' barracks all on her own!" he points out.

He's right, I realize with some regret. Turning to Ken, I explain, "That's true, unfortunately. I'm not allowed to go anywhere without getting permission from both Matron and the unit's CO. And I'll never get permission to attend a soldiers' concert."

Ken, however, just smiles casually. "Even better then, that I already asked their permission for you to come. And I'll have you know that it was willingly given."

That's… certainly surprising.

"How on earth…?" I let the question trail off.

"I extended the same invitation to all officers and nursing sisters of this unit, naturally. They were quite taken with the idea after that," Ken explains. "So, may I tell Smith and Young that you're coming?"

"I'll be glad to," I assure with a smile. In truth, I should probably be irritated at him for having organised this behind my back, but I _am_ looking forward to attending the concert. I'm even looking forward to seeing Moustache and Beardless again.

"They'll be happy to hear that. Might we welcome you as well, Doctor?" Raising an eyebrow, Ken turns to Dr Murray.

He pursues his lips, before answering with a curt "Maybe."

"Excellent. Having settled that, I'd best be on my way. Good day, Doctor," he nods at Dr Murray, "and I'll be seeing you, Rilla." This with a gentle brush of his hand against my arm, before he finally turns and strolls off.

Dr Murray and I are left to gaze after him, until he disappears behind a half-built hut. Cautiously, I look at Dr Murray. His face registers disapproval, but as he turns to me, his expression relaxes.

"Shall we get back to work, then?" I ask. Something tells me it's best not to mention Ken Ford again.

A beat, then he nods. "Yes. Let's get back to work."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The Conscientious Objector's Lament' from 1917 (lyrics and music by Davy Burnaby und Gitz Rice)._


	19. And a song stirs in the silence

_March 22_ _nd_ _, 1917  
Cambligneul, France_

 **And a song stirs in the silence**

They're funny, Beardless, Moustache and Goatee, their partner in crime. Or Young, Smith and Moles, as I probably should call them. But in my head they shall always be Beardless and Moustache, and Goatee completed their trio just fine.

Right now, the three of them are standing on a makeshift stage, acting out one skit after the other. Beardless, by default, has to take on the female roles every time and does a fabulous job of it. Currently, he's portraying a strict nurse, who is running after her two patients, and he's bringing the house down in the process.

"They're quite the comics, aren't they?" whispers Matron, who's sitting on my right.

She's taken it upon herself to have an eye on me, the matron. She's about twice my age and when I stumbled into her realm some weeks ago, she quickly decided that someone had to look after the fledgling and here we are. Not that I'd not vocally protest against any such treatment if asked, but… it's nice, to be honest. She's good at the caring part, Matron is. It's really a bit of a shame that motherhood never was part of her destiny, because there's something motherly about her that I react to almost instinctively, and so do the patients. Even after years of living in Canada, she has retained the Yorkshire dialect of her youth and when she speaks, it's strangely calming. Add that to the fact that she's as steadfast as any person I've ever met and I'm absolutely certain there's no storm Agatha Burke would not weather.

"They really are," I respond, clapping with the rest of the audience as the three privates take their bows. The applause is frenetic and Goatee almost loses his balance when attempting an extra-deep bow.

When the applause slowly dies down again, Moustache takes a couple of steps forward and clears his throat. Immediately, the room falls silent, as everyone wonders what's going to happen next. So far, we've had songs and skits, as well as a very good cabaretist. I expected the three of them to finish up and clear the stage for the next act, but apparently, Moustache has something left to say.

"My dear and much esteemed audience," he calls out rather bombastically, "on this fine evening, I am especially delighted to welcome the lovely nurses and heroic doctors of what is surely the best medical unit this side of the Atlantic!"

He pauses for dramatic effect, allowing the audience to voice their approval. "Hear, hear!" someone shouts from the back.

Again, Moustache clears his throat, before continuing. "I dare say you'll all be agreeing with me when I say that our evening would receive its own _je-ne_ … _je-ne_ … well, would be even more special if one of the charming ladies could be persuaded to sing for us."

Having listened to him with mounting scepticism, I'm a little dismayed to realize that yes, it's me his eyes are picking out of the crowd. All around me, the other soldiers are making their agreement known by furiously tramping their feet. Instinctively, I slide down a little on my chair.

"What do you say, Sister Blythe? Will you sing for us?" asks Moustache once the trampling feet have quieted down somewhat.

"I can't sing," I protest weakly. "Maybe someone else would like to…?" Even as I say it, however, I have few hopes of my objections being heard.

It's not Moustache though, but Beardless, who eagerly assures, "Of course you can, Sister. Your singing is beautiful. We heard it, when…"

Moustache's elbow is rammed into his side, hard, and for everyone to see. Abruptly, Beardless falls silent, covering his mouth with both hands. Nervously, both glance to the left side of the room, where the unit's officers are seated – Ken among them.

I shake my head slightly at watching them. There'll come a day when that boy will really talk himself into trouble.

" _Anyway_. We'd be delighted if you would agree to sing to us," Moustache addresses me, sounding a little sheepish, though that's in marked contrast to the glare he directs at his friend.

Just as I move to decline a second time, Matron leans closer to me. "Come on," she murmurs. "They're not interested in listening to an old crow such as myself, that's for sure. And where's the harm? You sing a little song and several hundred men are a little happier for it. It's not often that one gets the opportunity to achieve so much doing so little. And I can promise you one thing – no-one will mind whether you're hitting all the notes."

Her eyes are twinkling mischievously, and despite myself, I return her smile. "Alright," I whisper, "I'll do it. But if I make a fool of myself up there, I never want to hear a word about it!"

"Deal," promises Matron, giving me a little nudge.

I rise, still a little reluctantly, and move towards the stage, head bent, my ears ringing with the enthusiastic clapping and trampling of the men. I allow Goatee to help me up the stage – not without casting a warning glance in the direction of my two especial friends, making them shrink by at least two inches in the process – before finally coming to a halt next to the corporal manning the piano.

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to sing, Sister?" he enquires respectfully.

I look down at him, at a loss for words. I have no idea what it is that I want to sing. Not when I really don't want to sing anything at all!

Realizing that I'm not likely to answer, and hearing the audience get impatient, he turns to flip through his sheets of music. After a couple of seconds, he appears to have found something, for he looks back up at me. "Do you know 'Keep the Home Fires burning'?" he wonders.

Quickly, I nod. We had a record of that song on our ward in Taplow and as it was a particular favourite of Miss Talbot, we played it rather often. "Yes, I know the words," I assure. Unlikely I'll ever forget them.

The corporal aligns the sheet, flexes his fingers and plays the first note. Immediately, an expectant silence settles over the audience. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and wait for my cue.

 _They were summoned from the hillside,  
They were called in from the glen,  
And the country found them ready  
At the stirring call for men.  
Let no tears add to their hardships  
As the soldiers pass along,  
And although your heart is breaking,  
Make it sing this cheery song:_

In the beginning, my voice is soft, a little wobbly even, but as the song proceeds, I gain more confidence. I keep my eyes closed, however, because I know that the moment I see all those faces looking up at me, I'll be struck mute.

 _Keep the Home Fires Burning,  
While your hearts are yearning.  
Though your lads are far away  
They dream of home._

I'm no great singer, never have been. Di has the best voice of us, while Nan has always enjoyed singing the most. But I'm able to hit most of the notes, even if my voice does sound a little weak when I attempt the very high ones. But I suppose that Matron does have a point – this particular audience won't mind so much. The thought calms me.

 _Overseas there came a pleading,  
"Help a nation in distress."  
And we gave our glorious laddies -  
Honour made us do no less,  
For no gallant son of Freedom  
To a tyrant's yoke should bend,  
And a noble heart must answer  
To the sacred call of Friend._

And then, somewhere during the second stanza, I start to enjoy it. Cautiously, I open first one eye, then the other. In front of me is a sea of faces. Earnest, solemn faces. And as I look at them, I realize that it's not me they're seeing. It's their wives and sweethearts, their mothers and sisters – all those women that gave them up to fight a war in a faraway land and are faithfully waiting for their return.

 _There's a silver lining  
Through the dark clouds shining,  
Turn the dark cloud inside out  
'Til the boys come home._

After the last note has died away, silence descends upon the room. For a moment, no-one seems to move. Then, coming from the left side of the room, a lonely pair of hands starts clapping and the applause spreads, from one man to the next, until they're all clapping enthusiastically.

It's not so much an appraisal of my singing, for several of my predecessors did a far better job than I did and did not get the same amount of applause. It's more of a thank you for me having sung at all, as I very well know. Still, I feel my cheeks grow warm and bend my head, both pleased and a little embarrassed. I hint at a bow, then hasten to climb down the stage to escape from everyone's eyes. The roar of hundreds of hands and feet still rings in my ears.

I am far too overwound to get back to my seat and quietly listen to the rest of the concert and besides, I am perfectly certain that on this evening, I will not be able to become invisible again. So I signal to Matron my intent to go outside for a moment, then shake my head as she signals back to see whether I want company.

As I slip through the door, the cold hits me immediately, but it doesn't feel uncomfortable on my heated skin. For several moments I just stand still, breathing deeply, enjoying the silence out here. Even when I hear the door open and close behind me, I don't turn.

"Was that alright?" wonders Ken, as he comes to stand beside me. "Or do you want me to extend their kitchen duty by another two weeks?"

"If you want to do Moustache some real good, you'll have him take obligatory language lessons. His French is no better than his Latin," I answer, laughing softly at the memory of the poor boy butchering ‚ _je ne sais quoi_ '.

A grin flits across Ken's features. "Languages are not his forte," he agrees. "But honestly – was that alright for you? Otherwise, I'll have a little talk with him and Young."

I shake my head. "No, it's fine. I could always have declined, after all."

Ken shrugs. "Debatable. They made that situation rather an impossible one for you," he points out.

"Oh, well… it was just the one song," I reply, far more indulgent now than I felt in the moment itself. With a little grin of myself, I add, "Even though I probably murdered that one song quite effectively."

"I reckon it'll survive your treatment," he smiles in return.

We've started walking, and the sounds coming from within the hall are fading slowly. Our breaths turn the cold, clear air to small white puffs. Somewhere in the east, the guns thunder still.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small movement and as I turn my head slightly, I see Ken offering me a packet of cigarettes. "No, thanks," I decline. Betty used to smoke, as did Colette sometimes when she tried to be sophisticated, but I've never seen the appeal.

Shrugging, Ken lights a cigarette for himself. I must have looked more disapproving than intended, because as he notices my gaze, he raises an eyebrow questioningly. Quickly, I shake my head. I don't want him to think I'm criticising him.

"So, you're no smoker then," Ken notes, taking his first drag.

"Well…" I respond, drawing out the word. "I'm not partial to the smell. Besides, the nurse in me can't imagine there being any long-term health benefits to voluntarily breathing in that much smoke for any amount of time. Our gassed patients always cough that much more horribly after having had a cigarette."

Ken blows a smoky cloud into the air, before answering: "You'll understand if long-term health benefits are the least of my concerns right now. I hardly expect to die in my bed surrounded by my loved ones anyway. I've been here far too long for that. Do you know anything about probabilities? According to probabilities, I'd be long dead. Instead, I haven't got so much as a scratch."

The way he says that, so absolutely calm and matter-of-fact, makes me shiver.

"It's a good thing you haven't been wounded yet," I reply quietly, for I can hardly say that it's a good thing that he hasn't died, can I?

A grin blossoms on his lips and my shiver grows colder still. "That's not entirely true, come to think of it. Do you want to know a secret?" he enquires, conversationally.

Cautiously, almost warily, I nod.

"I spent some two weeks in hospital last year. Not Blighty, but still. And do you why?" he asks with a twinkle in his eyes. "I sprained my ankle. That's my heroic war wound."

Despite myself, I laugh. "How did that happen, then?" I'm not quite sure whether to be sympathetic or amused.

"I fell off a horse. Nellie and I had a disagreement. One of many," Ken answers good-naturedly.

Quizzically, I look up at him. "Nellie?"

"But of course, you haven't met Nellie yet. Nellie is the horse they assigned me over here. A beautiful animal, but a beast if there ever was one. She adores Pat, my batman, but apart from him, I've yet to meet any creature, be it two- or four-legged, that found favour in her eyes. She bites, she kicks and occasionally, she bucks me off, dear old Nellie."

"Sounds like you've found yourself a worthy adversary," I tease. "In whose honour is she named? Your fiancée's?"

Laughing, Ken shakes his head. "I don't think Selina would consider this much of any honour, actually. No, she's named after Nellie Melba. I saw her perform at the Royal Albert Hall some years ago, when we were in London, and I'm telling you – if honey made a sound, it would sound like her singing. Voice of a lark, but other than that, she's supposed to be quite the diva and I figured that to be quite fitting."

"Indeed", I nod. "And I suppose she wouldn't have tortured that song the way I just did."

"Certainly not," Ken agrees, not missing a beat.

No chance fishing for compliments with him.

A short silence stretches between us, only interrupted when Ken muses, "I was wrong about Nellie – Nellie, the horse – by the way. She also gets along quite well with the goat."

"The _goat_?" I ask, incredulous, regarding him with a decent amount of scepticism.

"The goat is our battalion's mascot. We got it last summer and I'm telling you, that thing eats everything! Some weeks ago, it even ate up the Colonel's cap when no-one was looking," Ken relays with a grin. I, too, have to laugh at the image he invokes.

"It's a bit strange, isn't it? We're in the middle of a war, just miles behind the frontline, and yet we're staging concerts and keeping pets. At my last hospital they had a penchant for costume parties," I wonder aloud.

"We'd go clean mad if we got never got a respite from war. You can't always be scared, sometimes you have to laugh and do things for fun. Otherwise, we'll all be Jerry before long," Ken replies quietly.

"Poor Jerry," I sigh. Then, another thought strikes me. "Speaking of which - did you know that Nan and Di fought?" It doesn't happen often, after all, the inseparable Ingleside twins fighting.

Ken raises an eyebrow in question. "What about? Jerry?"

"I only know what Faith has written," I amend, "but from what she told me, Di brought her friend Mildred with her to Ingleside. Mildred something or another – Henderson or some such. They're sharing a flat in Toronto. And Mildred has some… well, unusual opinions about the war. About how it is a device, wilfully created be the powerful, to primarily achieve the capitalistic multiplication of money. And that every man in uniform is complicit it."

"She isn't the only one to think that," Ken replies carefully.

I shrug. "Yes, maybe. I'm not even saying she's wrong. What do I know about capitalism? Or about guilt? But even if that's what one thinks, it's not very clever to talk about it in front of Nan. Her nerves are all shot to pieces anyway, according to Faith."

"I bet she wasn't happy," Ken agrees.

"Not at all," I nod. "Which, all things considered, is understandable. The surprising thing was Di siding with Mildred. She and Nan fought something horrible and the next morning, Di and Mildred left for Toronto. Faith wrote that everyone was shocked, Nan most of all. I certainly can't remember them ever fighting _for real_."

Thoughtfully, Ken inclines his head. "It was inevitable that one day, they'd both find someone they loved more than each other," he remarks quietly.

I nod vigorously, open my mouth to speak – and close it abruptly, as my thoughts catch up to his word. Speechless, I stare up at him. Blink. Blink again.

" _What_?" I whisper, once I have regained some command of my voice.

Ken looks down at me. "You didn't know that, then?" he asks.

"Didn't know _what_?" I retort, even as the knowledge of what he means is spreading within me.

"Didn't know about Di and Mildred being a little bit more than roommates. A little bit more than friends, even", Ken answers evenly.

Silently, I shake my head. Does that mean…? Is he saying…? My thoughts are tumbling about. Nothing seems to be making sense anymore.

Then – "How come you claim to know so much about that anyway?" I snap. I'm confused and it's his fault and I don't like the feeling.

Ken raises a soothing hand. "I'm writing to Di. We're friends. And I couldn't help but notice that Mildred kept taking up ever more space in her letters – in her _life_. So, one day, I asked Walt whether she might be more important to Di than previously assumed," he explains.

"More important", I murmur, still feeling quite as if struck by lightning.

"She loves her. Same as Nan loves Jerry. I understand that the thought might be foreign to you yet. There's nothing in the Bible about this kind of love, but then there are lots of things in this world the Bible doesn't tell you anything about. That doesn't make it damnable, not any of it," he continues. His voice is kind now, even sympathetic.

Incredulous, I shake my head. The thought _is_ foreign to me. That, at least, he's got right.

"Isn't this… well, illegal?" I ask, trying to hold on to facts amid my confusion.

Ken shrugs. "Only for men." Another foreign thought. I frown.

"But if Di… if she and this Mildred… well, if they really _love_ one another – why don't I know about this? I'm her sister, after all!" My voice, as I ask, sounds small.

"She's probably afraid of rejection. A lot of people out there don't understand this love and that makes them reject it – or worse," Ken answers carefully.

For several seconds, I turn his words in my head, examine them. Only then do I try to figure out my own jumbled feelings. Rejection? No, that's not it. I'm mad at Mildred, for making Nan sad. And the thought of her and Di… the thought is, well… _weird_. But apart from that…

"She's my sister. I love her," I say. I don't know whether that's really an answer, but Ken seems to take it as one.

"You know, I think she'd be glad if you wrote to her," he suggests. "She's worried about what everyone will think."

Out of the corners of my eye, I look at him. "You've spoken with her," I realize.

"Written," he corrects. "But yes. I've offered her a sympathetic ear, at least so far as it's possible what with letters not being private around here. But it's better than nothing, considering she doesn't have many people to talk to right now."

Slowly, I nod. "So, you're not rejecting her then." It's less question and more statement.

"I've seen more things in my life than you have. For me, the thought isn't a very new one," he points out, but his voice is friendly. "And apart from that, if there's one thing I have realized over here is that happiness is a precious thing. We can't afford to let it slip by, not the tiniest bit of it. If Di is happy with Mildred, then I'm not going to think badly of her because of it."

I listen to him, intently, and am quite unprepared for the wave of gratefulness suddenly crashing over me. My opinion of Ken Ford has so far been ambiguous – he's always seemed a little too ready to trifle with life – but if he is prepared to accept Di, even if it's not the easiest course of action, that's more than I would have expected of him.

He doesn't have anything more to say, apparently, and neither do I, so we let silence settle between us once more. We've moved closer to the hall and the wind carries a many-voiced chorus over to us.

 _There's a long, long trail a-winding  
Into the land of my dreams,  
Where the nightingales are singing  
And a white moon beams.  
There's a long, long night of waiting  
Until my dreams all come true;  
Till the day when I'll be going down  
That long, long trail with you._

Softly humming the melody to myself, I reflect that it really always gets me, this song, more than any other. Nothing else so aptly expresses that bittersweet longing to, one day, return home again.

"Would you like to hear some advice in matters of the heart as well?" Ken suddenly enquires.

My humming stops. Warily, I consider him. "What do you mean?"

Noticing my scepticism, he grins. "Your Dr Murray is rather in love with you," he informs me, obviously enjoying it a little too much. "You should consider giving him a chance. I don't think he'll dare make the first move."

My mind, having only just calmed down somewhat, is immediately thrown into disarray again. _Dr Murray_? Really?

"Who made you an expert in love matters, anyway?" I retort, feeling frustrated.

"No-one. It's just that he's hardly hiding his affection for you. Chiefly evident in how much he detests me because he's afraid I might know you better than he does," Ken explains cheerfully.

Helplessly, I shake my head. Surely not Dr Murray!

But, deep inside of me, there's a small voice, whispering. And now, encouraged by Ken's words, it pipes up. He really isn't hiding his preference for me, is he? And he _does_ detest Ken.

I sigh. Then I raise a hand, defensively.

"I don't think my poor head can take any more of this right now," I inform him. "Hearing about Di was quite enough for one evening. The other thing… let's leave it be for tonight, yes?"

Readily, Ken nods consent. "Sure, no problem. I never meant to offend you", he assures, sounds almost – apologetic?

"It's just that my mother always says that happiness lurks where you least expect it," he adds thoughtfully. "Maybe I just wanted to help you look for it – if you want to, that is."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Roses of Picardy' from 1916 (lyrics by Haydn Wood, music by Frederick Weatherly)._

 _The song 'Keep the Home Fires burning' is from 1914 (lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello)._

 _The song 'There's a Long Long Trail A-Winding' is from 1914 (lyrics by Stoddard King, music by Alonzo Elliott)._


	20. Till the shadows veil their skies

_April 9_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 1 __Canadian_ _Casualty Clearing Station, Aubigny-en-Artois, France_

 **Till the shadows veil their skies**

Easter is the feast of redemption.

At Easter, our Lord Jesus Christ sacrificed himself to absolve humankind of its sins, so that they might be saved. At Easter he died and rose from the dead. At Easter, he overcame death itself. I was taught to believe this in Sunday School and thus, I have believed.

Now, I don't know what to believe in anymore. If there ever was a Redeemer – where is he know? Where is he, when we need him most?

 _My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?_

Why indeed?

Is it because we, humankind in its entirety, have not proven worthy of his sacrifice? Have they renounced us, God and his Son? Have they beheld us, insignificant humans who we have forgotten everything we have ever been taught, and decided us to be unworthy? Have they cast us aside, like broken dolls no-one cares to love anymore?

There's no other explanation. For when I look around, seeing the mangled, broken bodies around me, I cannot imagine these men, _all of us_ , being saved by anyone yet. There's just us, small and fragile and lost as we are, and who should there be to redeem us?

Still, there has to be a special place in Hell for the generals who decided to start an offensive on Easter, of all times.

For three weeks, our artillery has thundered relentlessly, just a few miles to the east. So loud, so steady, so _much_ , that one cannot help but wonder about those the fire is directed at, enemy or not. They have no mercy, those guns.

They were not silent on Thursday, the day of the Last Supper, nor on Friday, when we remember the crucifixion. Not even yesterday, on Resurrection Day, did they fall silent even once. Only very early this morning there was silence, very suddenly, for a few moments, but it was only an intake of breath. Then, the thunder resumed, louder than before, and it seemed that even here, miles behind the lines, the world would not be for very much longer.

This morning, our boys left their trenches and moved towards the German line. They say it is a big offensive, all around Arras, with the British attacking south of our Canadian boys. There are even rumours of a French offensive even further south. But for the Canadian Corps, there is but one aim, the name of which is on everyone's lips.

Vimy Ridge.

If those two words don't mean much to someone out there, they may be forgiven. Vimy was a tiny village once, or so they say, and now it isn't anything at all, not anymore. The ridge was taken by the Germans in 1914 and neither the English nor the French succeeded in taking it back. Now, it is up to the Canadians to try.

They do try. They even seem to be succeeding. But there's a price to pay and this price is here to see, in front of my very eyes. It's a price paid in blood and limbs and lives.

It begs the question of the worth of it – of an hour of pain, a litre of blood, an arm or a leg, a life given. And the question of who will dare put a worth to it. Generals do, don't they? They dare and their answer is something to fear. Whatever a life is worth in their eyes, it cannot be very much.

Ever since the guns stopped this morning, we have been waiting. We waited in a restless kind of certitude, knowing _something_ was about to happen, but not yet being able to guess the extent of it. Until, shortly before midday, the first ambulances reached us and spewed out their cargo. Wounded men, with any and all wounds the human mind can think of, and some wounds that surely no-one is able to imagine at all.

We cared for them, those wounded, as we have done for almost a week, ever since the CCS was declared open. We calmed them and dressed their wounds and gave them medicine and, when it appeared sensible, handed them over to the operating theatre. But before we had taken care of the first transport, the next ambulances were already nearing, bringing new patients, more and ever more.

In the beginning, I tried to count them. After a while, I didn't. I lost track of them, of course I did, there were _too many_ of them, but I also gave up, simple as that. The numbers are too high for the mind to grasp, even more as they have to be multiplied, those numbers, for every CCS along the frontline. Then, it becomes more than one can bear.

Some 300 patients in the first six hours, or so Dr Murray has estimated. 300 patients from midday to evening and no sign of the stream of wounded starting to abate.

I dare not speak of sunset, for if the sun rose this morning, she never showed us her face. It has been a day, same as the winter before, dark and cold, with snow and sleet and storms. Not a hint of sun or even spring.

Still, the day seems to wane, for the grey has started to yield to a darker grey. Night is falling.

"Would you mind having a look outside?" Dr Murray asks, as he is hurrying past. He does not wait for an answer and I give him none. We limited out words to the most necessary ones hours ago. No time for more.

With an encouraging pat on the shoulder of the patient in front of me, I reach for my coat. Wrapping it tightly around myself, I hasten towards the tent's entrance. Even as I throw back the cover, I instinctively raise my shoulders against the cold.

And then I see them.

Rows upon rows of stretchers, in front of huts and tents, all along the wayside. Unloaded, deposited, because the ambulances need to go back for more. In between, the walking wounded, those able to stand on their own feet, at the very least – now cowering, huddled against wind and snow and cold. Above it all, a constant whimper, low moaning, punctuated by cries.

No thought of counting them. Hundreds, certainly. Hundreds of men, enduring in the fading light, exposed to the unrelenting weather, yet waiting patiently. Waiting for us to find the time to take care of them.

And yet, even now all our beds are taken, all hands occupied, the limit of our ability well near reached. We _can't_ care for them as well, it's not _possible_. But there's no-one else to do it, is there? And in the distance, the rumble of the ambulances, the sound calling to us that there's more to come, still.

If someone had told me that tonight, the world will end – in this moment, I believe it.

"Sister?" a timid voice to my left.

Slowly, I turn my head. A soldier stands before me, clad in an English uniform. His arm is in a hastily knotted sling. A dirty bandage is wound around his head. His teeth are chattering, from cold or shock or both. He's one of the lucky ones.

"Sister, please, can you help me?" he asks.

I stare at him, unmoving, before abruptly turning away. The tent's cover falls shut between us.

Quickly, my eyes take in the chaos before me. Ever last bit of ground is taken up by patients. Nurses and orderlies and doctors rush between them. It takes me a moment to find Dr Murray, but when I do, I hurry over to him.

His questioning gaze meets mine, just for a second or two. Never once do his hands halt in the treatment of the patient lying in front of him.

"There must be hundreds out there, at least half of them stretcher cases," I report, my voice tight.

"Go outside, then. Do what you can while they wait," he orders without a flicker of hesitation. "I'm afraid it will take the rest of the night until we have treated them all."

Yes, I was afraid of that as well. I can hardly imagine the night to suffice, to be honest. The remaining hours seem far too few.

"You can try to sort them," adds Dr Murray. "Those lightly wounded and those still able to walk will have to wait or be sent to the trains as they are. The serious cases must have absolute priority. Can you do that?"

Now, he is looking at me. He's tired, as horribly tired as we all are, but his eyes are kind, caring.

Hesitantly, I nod. "I think I do." Then, for a moment, I falter, take a breath. "What about those that…?" I can't finish the question. My throat is tight.

What about those that won't survive?

But he understands and I am grateful for it. "We won't forsake anyone as long as we can help it. And if we must, you won't be the one having to decide that," he answers and sounds so very _sure_ about it.

A wave of relief crashes over. Slowly, I let go of a breath I had been holding. The thought of denying help to a fellow human being – a wounded and suffering human being –, to let him _die_ , just because we're simply too few, was too unbearable to even think through. For a moment, I close my eyes, try to control my breath. When I look back at Dr Murray, I feel calmer.

"Yes, I think I can do that," I confirm. My voice sounds more like my own again.

"I know you do," he answers quietly. A smile, fleeting but encouraging, and suddenly I feel a little better than before.

Impulsively, I reach for his hand, just for the fraction of a second. "Thank you," I murmur, even as I let go of it again. What I thank him for, I do not even know. For not making me the judge of life and death, for trusting me, for making me feel a tiny bit more confident about going out there again. Because when I turn towards the tent's entrance again, I feel, for the first time in hours, that maybe, somehow, we'll cope with this yet.

In passing, I take hold of two orderlies, loading their arms with dressings and bandages, and directing them to follow me outside, into snow and darkness. I myself reach for a lamp, a supply bag, and just as I leave the tent, I shove a bottle of morphine into the pocket of my coat. If they have to wait in the cold, the least we can do it take the pain away.

As I raise the tent's cover once more, letting the orderlies pass, I feel a pair of eyes on me. Looking over my shoulder, I see the English soldier with the bandaged head and the arm sling. Patiently, naively even, he returns my gaze. He's hurt and I am a nurse and, maybe rightfully, he expects me to help him. But 'hurt' just doesn't suffice, not tonight. He's far too well, if there's such a thing as 'too well' in this place. He'll need to wait.

"You head wound, is it serious?" I ask, taking a bandage from the pile one of the orderlies balances in his arms.

"No, Sister," the injured man answers politely. "I fell and hit my head." His voice is almost imperceptible above the howling of the wind.

I press the bandage into his hands. "Your dressing is dirty. Go and find someone to change it," I order. "It'll be a while before we can have a look at you. We need to take care of the stretcher cases beforehand."

Right now, a hit head and an arm in a sling are just not enough.

He nods. The movement is slow, cautious. "Of course, Sister. Thank you, Sister," he responds courteously. His good arm reaches of the bandage I hold out to him.

I don't wait to see whether he finds someone to renew his dressing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a young private, on duty in the hospital kitchen, and call out to him, "You, can you organize hot tea for the men waiting out here? And we need blankets. Get all blankets you can find. If necessary, take those from the personnel's beds as well. None of us will sleep tonight anyway."

A tiny part of me registers, in passing, how easily the commanding tone comes to me these days. Who would have thought that, even a year ago?

"Tea, Ma'am, and blankets," nods the private, "of course, Ma'am, I'll take care of it."

Quickly, he disappears into the growing darkness. I turn back to the orderlies, take some more bandages from their piles and shove them into my pockets.

"Hand out the dressings," I tell them. "Those able to bind up themselves should do so. Help the other ones. Call me when you feel someone needs immediate treatment."

They, too, make no unnecessary words about it. One of them nods, the other already turns to go. They know what to do. They've been here longer than me.

I watch as they melt into the dark, then take a step forward myself – and stop. Where to begin, when help is needed everywhere?

Those closer to the tents have been waiting a longer time already, but there's no knowing whether those lying further away might not need medical help much more desperately. There's no correct decision in this and for a moment, the realization leaves me frozen to the sport, rendered helpless by the magnitude of my task.

Then I shake my head, shake off the feeling. It doesn't matter quite where I begin – I only need to do it. So I kneel down next to the stretcher closest to me and direct my lamp to the face of the man lying on it.

Only, there _is_ no face. No whole face, at any rate. Not anymore. There's the forehead, two eyes, part of a nose and, beneath that, a hastily wound dressing that fails in covering what's missing. Chin, jaw, mouth – gone. Only a black hole beneath an insufficient dressing.

I take a deep breath. The eyes of the man with half a face flicker up to meet mine. I fight to keep my own face impassive. Never, never may you let them see that you want to run. Not even when the urge to run is overwhelming.

The man suddenly opens his eyes wide. He seems to want to speak, but that's impossible, of course. He _can't_ speak. How could he, with no mouth and no lips and no tongue?

"Shh, it's alright. Don't speak", I murmur, hoping my voice will calm him somewhat. I don't dare cut off the dressing for fear of everything falling apart, so I just take a new bandage and wind it over the old one, the better to conceal the nothingness beneath.

"I'll give you something to help with the pain. You'll feel better afterwards. A doctor will see you soon," I promise. I force myself to speak slowly, to intone every word. After each sentence, I take a deep breath, let go of it slowly before speaking again.

My fingers are stiff from the cold, but practiced enough for me to be able to fill a syringe with morphine and administer it to the man. Taking his pain away is the only thing I am able to do for him just now. I wonder whether there's anyone at all who will be able to do something for him in the long run?

He has his field medical card attached to his uniforms, undoubtedly issued by a harassed medical officer somewhere at the frontline. In the dwindling light, I almost fail in deciphering the scrawled words. I jot down the dose of morphine I have given him and mark him as a serious case requiring immediate treatment. In farewell, I gently touch his forehead. There's no knowing whether I'll ever see him again.

The stretchers lie so closely together that, to reach the next patient, I don't even have to get up. Still crouching on the cold earth, I simply turn around, raising the lamp a little, the better to see the man now lying in front of me. As the lights shines on him, I instinctively wonder whether he's one of those whose fates I won't have to decide on.

He's very still. The bandage wound around his stomach is drenched in blood. Looking closer, I realize it's no bandage at all, merely a coloured cloth, which maybe once was a piece of clothing. It's possible his comrades have tried to dress the wound with whatever they had at hand. It's probable that no doctor has even seen him yet. Cautiously, I touch the cloth and as I pull back my hand, my fingers are red with his blood.

Wiping clean my fingers on my apron, I then press my hands together. Once they have stopped shaking, I put a finger to the man's neck, feeling for his pulse. There is one. It's weak, but I can feel it. He's still alive, though how long he will be is anyone's guess. There's so very much blood.

As I raise my head, I see two stretcher bearers leaving one of the huts. I get up from the ground and wave my arm to garner their attention. After having noticed me, they make their way over, stepping over stretchers and around patients crouched on the ground.

"Take him into the tent over there. He needs immediate treatment," I ask them, taking a step back to allow them to reach him. Silently, I watch them take up the stretcher, surprisingly nimble considering the weight, and make their way over to the receiving tent. As the tent's cover falls shut behind them, I suddenly become aware of a tight, hot knot somewhere deep in my chest.

Gratitude.

Gratitude, because I won't be me having to declare this man to be lost.

I take a deep breath, before turning around, facing the countless wounded, still patiently waiting for someone to help them.

The rest of the night is a never-ending nightmare of nameless wounded. They resemble one another. Pale men with tired eyes and dirty uniforms and bloody, muddy dressings. Only the wounds separate one from the other. Stomachs torn open, legs torn off, arms with gunshot wounds, backs spiked by shrapnel, faces destroyed. It's an endless litany of horror.

For hours, I fight on. Move from patient to patient, hold their hands, change their dressings, give them morphine and try to force back the night with whatever little means I have. And in those dark hours, I learn what it is to be alone. Alone and helpless in the face of something so much bigger than myself.

Sometimes, orderlies pass, less often another sister or a doctor. A few times, Dr Murray himself leaves the receiving tent, asking about the situation out here, giving advice, even once squeezing my arm in an attempt of comfort. Every time he leaves, I have to fight the urge to call him back.

Still, I persevere. Everyone does. We won't sleep, as long as there is even one man out here in the cold.

And it must be long after midnight when the last patient is carried into the tent. Two o'clock? Three? I don't know. I have lost all sense of time, sometime during this cold, merciless night.

I stand with my back to the tent, shoulders pulled up against the wind. Snowflakes dance in a merry play, over the empty space that was covered in wounded mere hours ago.

We did it.

I should be feeling glad, maybe proud, at the very least relieved, but in truth, I feel empty. And tired, so horribly tired. Because for tonight, the work is done, but it's no victory in light of the suffering I have seen. And because I know it will continue in the morning and on the next day and the next. Who knows whether it well ever end, this dance of blood and pain and death?

Next to me, someone clears their throat. Slowly, I move my head. The first thing I see is a mug, then the hand holding it. I blink. As I raise my head, I see the hand belongs to Dr Murray.

"You did well tonight," he remarks quietly. The hand holding the mug moves a little closer to me and, almost out of instinct, I take the mug.

It is warm between my frozen fingers, and I close both hands around it. Whatever it holds, it's hot and I'm cold. I raise the mug, expecting tea or maybe coffee, but instead there's is a thick, dark sweetness sloshing against my lips.

Without putting down the mug, I cast a surprised gaze at Dr Murray over its rim. "Hot chocolate," he explains, "I have secret stash. I figure you earned it." There's the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Carefully, I take another sip, and another. The thick chocolate fills my numb body, but it's more than just warmth or sweetness. It's the memory of my childhood, of a snug bed, of Island storms behind the window, of bedtime stories, of a kiss on the forehead. The chocolate taste of everything good in this world, in a night, when I almost lost my faith in both goodness and in the world.

I start drinking faster, in long gulps, almost greedily so. I should probably relish it, draw out the experience, but there are times for that and I don't have time. Much too soon the mug is empty and my tongue feels raw from the heat, but, inexplicably, I feel better. With quiet regret, I put down the mug, still keeping my hands closed around it. It's warm yet.

After a moment, I turn back to Dr Murray. There are deep shadows beneath his eyes, but the eyes themselves twinkle amusedly, as he looks at me. A little embarrassed, I lower my gaze. "Thank you, Doctor," I murmur.

Two or three seconds pass.

"Call me Zachary," he suddenly asks. "It's a little unusual, I know, but I think now that we have endured such a day and night side by side, we have no need for all that formality anymore. What do you think?"

He's right. We've fought a shared battle, him and me and everyone else in this hospital. Miles behind the _real_ battle, maybe, but a battle it was nonetheless. And not always did we win.

"Zachary," I repeat and manage something akin to a smile. "And I am Rilla." With no small regret do I let go of the warm mug and extend one hand to Zachary, but as his fingers close around mine, they, too, are warm.

And it might be down to the warmth of the chocolate or the warmth of his hand, but all of a sudden, this grim night doesn't feel quite as cold. There were moments tonight, long moments even, when I felt terribly lonely. Terribly helpless and terribly alone. But I am neither. I never was, not once during this night.

When I left the tent at nightfall, the task appeared an impossible one, the sheer number of patients more than could somehow be treated. And it wouldn't have been possible, not for one person alone. But together, working tirelessly, we did it. We cared for every last man and even if that doesn't make it _good_ , it makes it _better_ , at the very least. And though that may only be a small comfort, it is a comfort nonetheless.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Roses of Picardy' from 1916 (lyrics by Haydn Wood, music by Frederick Weatherly)._

 _The bible verse (Mk 15:34 and Mt 27:46) is one of the Seven Last Words from the Cross._


	21. A lucifer to light your fag

_April 18_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 1 __Canadian_ _Casualty Clearing Station, Aubigny-en-Artois, France_

 **A lucifer to light your fag**

Firmly, I press both hands against the man's head. His hair is felted, sticky with mud and blood and other fluids. The skin of his forehead feels cold and clammy. He is missing his right ear.

For a moment, I close my eyes and turn my senses inwards, towards my heart beating too fast and my breath that I struggle to keep even. Breathe in. One, two seconds. Hold the breath – and let it go. And start over.

Anything but think of the feeling of horror, brewing deep inside of me, and threatening to break out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"Rilla?"

Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

Zachary is standing next to me, his concerned gaze moving from me to the patient and back to me again.

"Is everything alright?" he asks cautiously.

Only with difficulty do I suppress the hysterical laugh rising up within me. Two deep breaths, then I trust my voice to speak. "Well, it depends."

His brow furrows in question and even I have to admit it's probably not a very satisfactory answer. But the hysterical laugh bubbles close to the surface still, so I keep my lips firmly shut.

Very slowly, Zachary steps closer, not unlike one would advance upon a frightened animal and it is only with some seconds of delay that I realize _I'm_ the animal in this. He raises his hands, ever so measured in his movements, and places them over mine, trying to loosen my grip upon the head of the motionless soldier in front of us. Instinctively, I burrow my fingers deeper into the blood-soaked hair.

"Don't!" I hiss. Surprised, he looks at me. His hands still in their movement.

"When I take my hands away, his head falls apart and then his brain falls out and I only just put it back in!" I snap at him.

Doesn't he _see_?

"His head falls apart?" Zachary asks. His voice sounds all strange. At least he pulls his hands backs.

I nod vigorously. "Yes, apart," I repeat impatiently. "The top of his skull falls off and then the brain falls out and lies on the floor. A brain does not belong on the floor."

 _He_ should know that, shouldn't he?

For a moment or two, Zachary observes me closely. I keep my head down, my eyes locked on my hands, holding together the man's head. My knuckles are white from exertion and my skin red with his blood.

"No, a brain does not belong on the floor," Zachary finally agrees carefully.

Aha! So there we go.

"Do you suppose I might have a look at him anyway?" he then asks, very gently, motioning towards the man's head.

Warily, I look up at him. My fingers hold on tight.

"I promise to catch his brain, should it fall out again," Zachary assures after a beat. "It won't fall to the floor again."

Well, that's something, at the very least.

Hesitatingly, I move a step to the right, so that he can stand beside me. Then, very slowly, I loosen my grip, pull my hands from the soldier's hair. Without the pressure they exerted and without the dirty, frayed bandage I have earlier cut away from his head, the top of his skull immediately comes loose. But Zachary keeps his word.

Standing so closely beside him, I now see that it's only a part of the brain now lying in Zachary's hands. The bigger part is still inside the head, where it belongs. Quietly, Zachary looks down at the man, then, with a sigh, slides the brain part back into the head and presses the skullcap against it.

"Come on, we'll dress him," he prompts.

He keeps his hands where they are, holding everything together, while I begin to wind a long panel of fabric around the soldier's head.

"That's useless. He's dead anyway," a new voice suddenly interrupts our work. I turn my head and recognize Bright, one of the orderlies. Cigarette in hand, he has stepped closer to us, eyeing the patient curiously.

"He is _not dead_ ," I snarl at him.

I don't like Bright. He was a medical student before the war and considers himself something of an expert because of it. I could tolerate that, but can't stand the casual way with which he treats the patients and their suffering, nor how fascinated he is by their injuries. The more gruesome a wound, the more interested Bright is. It's morbid and immoral and I don't like it.

Ignoring my remark but for the haughty look he casts my way, Bright reaches for the patient's left arm, lying motionless upon the stretcher. He searches for a pulse and I can see his arrogance give way first to surprise, followed by an intense curiosity.

Inwardly, I shudder, but I force myself to keep my hands steady as I continue to wind the bandage around the patient's head.

"How can he be alive?" Bright murmurs, clearly fascinated.

A disapproving frown crosses Zachary's face, but in the end, he does answer. "We understand very little about the human brain, but what we do know is that different parts have different functions. My guess it that the part responsible for controlling the vital functions is not directly affected by the injuries. That's why he is still alive."

"But surely, he can't survive such an injury!" Bright insists.

I am busy fastening the end of the bandage, but at this, I abruptly raise my head. I haven't picked the brain off the floor only for them to let him die now!

Zachary, realizing I am about to protest, silences me with a slight shake of the head. "Don't you want to take a break? You've been very busy today," he suggests.

Warily, I eye him. "Not busy at all. We've only had one transport. Three patients and this one," I counter. My hand closes around the knot of the bandage.

"And there's no knowing if there won't be another 200 patients tonight," Zachary points out.

I frown, unwilling to agree, even if, strictly speaking, he's right. Ever since the battle of Vimy Ridge a week ago, our intake of patients has varied considerably. Not once did we have as many as on that first day, but while some days pass with no new transports at all, it is not unusual for us to receive 100 or 200 or even 300 new patients in one day. If those four patients are our only arrivals for today, it must rightly be called a quiet one.

Still… there's something within me, balking at the thought of leaving my motionless – _defenseless_ – patient alone with those two. Not when a bottle of morphine is so close at hand.

My fingers grip the knot more tightly. Zachary, I see, doesn't miss it. He sighs softly, then places his own hand over mine, opening my fingers. He's gentle, but forceful enough to overcome my resistance.

"He won't live," he says quietly. I have a feeling he intended to say my name, but caught himself just in time. No need to give someone like Bright more information than necessary.

Stubbornly, I shake my head, try to extract my hand from Zachary's hold. He doesn't let go.

And there's a tiny voice inside me head, telling me he's right. I couldn't see it before – shock, maybe? – but the routine work of dressing a wound has calmed me somewhat. So, despite still being able to feel the sensation of holding the man's brain in my hand, despite not _wanting_ to agree with Zachary, I realize that there's no other way. He _won't_ live, this man. Not when part of his brain has already been down on the floor. That he's made it this far is either a miracle or a whim of nature. But it will not last. His heart may be beating yet, but in truth, he's long dead.

My hand goes limp, and only now does Zachary release it.

"Go outside, take a break," he almost pleads. "I'll take care of the rest."

So, I go. Not against my better judgment, thought certainly against my instinct. But I have faith in Zachary. I know him well enough to be sure of one thing – he would never give up on a patient if the patient wasn't already lost beforehand.

Outside, it's raining.

The biting cold of last week has subsided. Snow and sleet have given way to a weather that, in all its capriciousness, is typical of April. At least it's not as cold anymore. We've even had one or two nice days since the day the big offensive began.

I find a crate, standing beneath the projecting roof of one of the tents, and sit down upon it. For several moments, I stare into the rain, falling down in thin threads of water, before I let my head sink backwards, against the side of the hut. I close my eyes and try not to think of anything.

No idea how long I sit there, entirely motionless, eyes closed, listening to the soft sound of the rain. Many minutes, probably. Eventually though, a voice cuts through the silence.

"You alright?"

I open my eyes, and watch Ken come closer and shake the rain droplets from the shoulders of his coat.

"Well, it depends," I answer for the second time today. And for the second time, my answer is apparently found to be wanting, for the look Ken casts my way is decidedly sceptical.

"Your Dr Murray told me you'd be out here somewhere," he explains as he leans against the side of the hut, looking down at me.

I don't much like the advantage in height this provides him with so I rise from my crate as well. Even standing I have to look up at him, but not quite so much. "He isn't _my_ Dr Murray," I correct him, feeling disgruntled.

Ken just shrugs. "Sure. No need to get touchy about it," he replies easily.

I can't help an eye-roll. Even at my best, I am never quite sure how much I enjoy Ken's presence, especially when he's deciding to act _this_ way, but today, I am still less sure than normally.

"He mentioned you've had a rough day," Ken remarks conversationally.

"Zachary?" I ask, realizing a second too late that _of course_ he's talking about Zachary and that the use of his given name does nothing to reinforce my earlier argument.

"If Zachary is the name of good Dr Murray, then yes, Zachary," Ken retorts, not missing a beat.

I turn my head away. "It wasn't pretty," I admit. "But then, he has a tendency to wanting to protect me from my own work."

"Yes, he seems the type," Ken agrees immediately.

Who declared _him_ the expert?

"Have you been in the receiving tent?" I ask abruptly.

Ken looks at me from the side. "Yes. Why?"

I take a breath. "The patient they have been treating… is he dead?" I wouldn't have been able to stand it anyway, this not-knowing.

"He was all wrapped up in a brown shroud, so I sincerely do hope he was dead", Ken answers drily.

With a jolt, I push myself off of the hut's side. I don't look at him, instead take a step forward. Just as I move to step from beneath the roof, out into the rain, I feel Ken reach for me, taking hold of my arm. I halt, yet don't turn around.

A moment of hesitation, then he speaks. "I'm sorry. Don't think me heartless. We're all coping in our own way."

I turn my head slightly, so that, out of the corner of my eye, I can see him. He does, admittedly, appear to be a little abashed. "How do you cope?" I ask, my voice sounding brusque even to my own ears.

"I smoke too much, drink too much and tell inappropriate jokes," he replies promptly. "Would I not care, I would do neither."

There's a truth to his words I can't deny. Slowly, I turn back around to face him.

"What about you?" he wonders. "How do you cope?"

How, indeed?

"Not at all, I guess," I answer after a moment of hesitation.

Ken nods. "No-one does, really. We may try, but…" He trails off.

For a moment, we both fall silent. Ken plunks himself down onto the crate, tapping the space beside him. After a second of deliberation, I sit next to him, if only because my feet hurt. My feet are always hurting these days.

"I held a part of his brain in my hands not even an hour ago," I tell him haltingly. "A part of the brain of the dead man. Only, he wasn't dead then. His brain fell out and I picked it up from the floor and put it back in, because I didn't know what else to do with it. I even wiped off the dust beforehand."

I halfway expect him to pity me, but he doesn't and I am grateful.

"They're curious things, brains are, don't you think? The way they look, all squishy and slimy, you'd never think they were responsible for everything we do or think. That they make us who we are, really," he remarks thoughtfully instead.

"There are people out there who'd say that it's our souls making us into who we are," I argue.

Ken raises a mocking eyebrow. "They're welcome to _show_ me a soul, in that case."

True.

He fumbles with his coat's pocket and offers me the oh-so familiar packet of cigarettes – or 'fags', as the soldiers call them. This time, I take one. If it surprises him, he doesn't comment on it, merely lights my cigarette, then his own. Maybe he does understand, after all.

Cautiously, I take a drag. This isn't my first time smoking, much as it would shock my mother to hear this. Normally, I don't like it much, neither the smell nor the taste of it, but maybe there's nothing normal about a day on which one has held part of a brain in their hands.

"What brought you here in the first place?" I wonder, letting a puff of smoke escape into the humid air.

Ken smirks. "Maybe I had a longing to see you?"

I scoff. "Hardly."

"At least not solely," Ken relents with a smile. Then, abruptly, he falls silent and the smile falls from his face.

Quizzically, I look at him. He takes a drag of his cigarette, sighs.

"They brought Young here some days ago. I came to see him," he explains. His voice is resigned.

I frown, thoughtfully. "I can't remember treating him," I admit. "But we've been getting so many patients these past few days, you never see all of them. Have you found him? We're trying to send them on as quickly as possible at the moment, to free up beds."

"Oh, he's been here alright. It's just that he died this morning," Ken replies bitterly.

Poor Beardless.

I take a long drag of my cigarette.

"I'm sorry," I then murmur, touching his shoulder for a moment. "Are the other two alright?"

"Moles was wounded on the very first day. He's in a hospital somewhere down by the coast. Smith is well – or as well as can be expected, considering," Ken answers. He's not looking at me, keeps his gaze straight ahead, fixed on the falling rain. He's smoking so quickly his cigarette is burnt down a good deal more than mine already.

He is _so_ not coping.

"Was it very bad for you? The offensive?" I ask. Quite possibly, it's wrong to ask, but those are dark thoughts flitting across his face and maybe, in talking about it, they can find their way outside?

He lets the butt of his cigarette fall, and turns to looks at me. "Not so very bad," he replies, but his voice has a hollow quality to it. "We were in the second wave, so the others had cleaned up somewhat beforehand. They got it worse than we did. During those two days of attack, we had thirty dead, twenty missing, eighty wounded. That's not so very many. We've had far worse days before, really. But when you know every single man, it's not just numbers, you know?"

Slowly, I nod. I might sound heartless, but I, too, don't mourn the death of a nameless patient who dies shortly after being admitted, in the same way as when a patient dies after I have spent days or weeks caring for him. Still, it's worse for Ken, isn't it? He's known these men for years, has fought and lived beside them. I can only guess what their deaths mean to him.

"Can't have been an easy day for you either," Ken remarks and I realize he simply doesn't want to talk about himself any longer.

"Almost thirteen hundred patients until the evening of the 10th", I inform him, keeping my voice matter-of-fact. "It was… well, a challenge. But we only lost 26 patients, not counting those who died on the way."

Ken nods appreciatively. "Not a bad rate."

About a tenth of our patients during those two days were German prisoners-of-war, but I don't tell him that, nor do I mention that so many men died en-route that our mortuary was completely overcrowded. They had to lay out the dead in rows in front of the tent.

Apparently, neither of us likes speaking about that day.

"When were those? The days that were worse?" I ask instead.

There's a moment of hesitation before Ken answers. "This past October, for one, over at the Somme. The _Battle of Ancre Heights_ they're calling it now. We attacked and got slaughtered for it."

He laughs, mirthless. I don't dare speak. But I did ask, didn't I?

"By the end of it, out of five hundred men, less than ninety were still standing. Besides me, just one other officer and he had been shot through both legs," he adds quietly. "We closed out the day in the same trenches from which we had started in the morning. Not even one measly meter of gain to show for over eighty percent casualties. Vimy Ridge, at least, we did take. But that… that was just senseless dying."

There's a darkness in his eyes, something tortured, hunted even. These are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.

I take one last drag of my cigarette, let the butt fall to the floor. I have no idea what to say.

Ken looks at me. "I'm sorry. Had I better not told you that?" he wonders.

Vehemently, I shake my head. "I did ask, didn't I? It's just… sometimes, it's hard to bear."

"You can say _that_ again," he retorts drily. He's back to gazing at the rain. Several seconds pass.

"Are you ever afraid? To die, I mean?" I ask softly. Our conversation has long left the confines of polite discourse anyway. I wonder when that happened?

Ken inclines his head thoughtfully before answering, "At the front, everyone is afraid. Don't you ever believe otherwise, despite what the papers write. That's just propaganda. Everyone is afraid. And every time they send us down the trenches, part of me just wants to run. Running would mean leaving my men behind, so I don't, but that doesn't change the fact that I _want_ to."

His searching gaze meets mine. "Not very heroic, I'm afraid," he remarks with a cynical little smile.

I give a shrug. "I don't know whether it's heroic not to be afraid. But I'm pretty certain it would be foolish."

A smile flashes across his face, gone as fast as it appeared. "Well said," he acknowledges. Once more, he offers me a cigarette, but this time, I decline, so he only lights one for himself.

"If I'm perfectly honest," he continues after having taken the first drag, "It's not even so much death I am afraid of. I was, in the beginning. In the beginning, I was sick with fear at the thought of dying. Now…"

"Now?" I prompt as he falls silent.

For some moments, he seems to be gathering his thoughts, his gaze fixed somewhere to the left of my head. When he answers, however, he's back to looking at me. "Now I'm more scared of _how_ I could survive. I don't have to tell _you_ how some of those men come out of this war. Maimed, blind, without legs, without a _face_. Sometimes I think I'd prefer to be dead than to live like this. Sometimes even, I think I'd make sure to _be_ dead rather than live that way."

I'd like to say that his words shock me, but they don't. He's right – I have seen what this war does to men. And, more than once, I have privately wondered what I would do, were I in their stead. I know what he means.

Ken considers me thoughtfully. "Did you know, in the first few months, I always had a feeling of there being a clock behind me, ticking. _Tick tock_. Until, one day, the ticking just stopped. It confused me at first, until I realized my time was up. I guess I'd have been in for it a long time ago, but good old Death is simply too busy to pick me up. That's why I don't like being in the presence of the dying – it always gets me thinking that, when he comes to collect them, Death might remember me and take me as well."

There's a smile on his lips, not even a very bitter one, and yet I feel a cold shiver along my spine.

I remember the old saying of feeling this way when somebody walks over your grave. Maybe it's that. Or maybe, it's that death itself has gone past both of us far too often already. Who's to know that Ken isn't right? That death won't one day pass by and remember who else he meant to take?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag' from 1915 (lyrics by George Henry Powell, music by Felix Powell)._


	22. By the poplars

_May 2_ _nd_ _, 1917  
No. 1 __Canadian_ _Casualty Clearing Station, Aubigny-en-Artois, France_

 **By the poplars**

"Alright then, where does it hurt?" I enquire of the patient they've just brought in. He's on his stomach, and has to crane his neck awkwardly to look at me.

"The bastards shot me in the bum," he informs me cheerfully.

I raise an eyebrow in return, mostly at the way he phrased it. His injury, after all, is one I'm familiar with. It's not a rare one.

He catches on immediately. "Right. Yes. Apologies. How's this sound instead? The Imperial German soldiers regretfully inflicted a gunshot wound on my _derièrre_." He makes an effort to sound as grand as possible, saying this.

Shaking my head slightly, I smile at him. "Then let's have a look, yes?" With one hand, I'm already reaching for my bandage scissors.

"You do that, Sister. I'm afraid I won't be seeing much though. I'm no owl, after all", he replies, not missing a beat.

The jokester.

Still shaking my head at him, I start cutting his dressing. It falls away, revealing his wound, which I lean closer to inspect. He has gunshot wounds to both buttocks, the boor boy. It probably hurts worse than his flippant behaviour suggests.

"Looks like the Imperial German soldiers really got you there," I confirm, borrowing his earlier words.

"I got them worse," he's quick to assure. Over his shoulder, he's watching me closely, despite it likely being a fairly uncomfortable position.

"I have no doubt about that," I soothe with a smile.

Selecting a small pair of forceps, I bend closer over the wound. "This might hurt a bit," I warn him. Flickering my eyes up at him, I see him grit his teeth, but no sound escapes. There's nothing they hate more than letting the pain show.

One bullet is stuck in his left buttock, so I attend to that one first. I've already spent the morning plucking tiny shell splinters from a hapless private's back for three hours straight, so I am certainly prepared. And indeed, it doesn't take long for me to get ahold of the bullet and pull it out. The soldier in front of me – a sergeant – makes hissing sound, but is perfectly still in all other respects.

"Here, we've got the culprit," I remark, holding up the forceps to present the bullet to him.

Beads of sweat have gathered on his forehead, but he manages a smile when he sees the bullet. "May I keep it, Sister?" he asks, "As a souvenir?"

There was a time once when it confused me, their desire to keep the bullets and pieces of shrapnel that wounded them, but by now, I'm used to it. It's a pretty common request.

"Sure you can," I answer with a shrug. I wipe the bullet clean on a piece of cloth and let it fall into his outstretched hand. No idea what he intends to do with it, but that's not my problem anyway.

Just as I turn back to attend to the other buttock, I notice Zachary coming over to us.

"Gunshot wounds to both buttocks," I inform him matter-of-factly. "I got the bullet out of the left buttock, but don't currently know whether there's another stuck in the right one as well. From the way the wounds look, though, I'd say it was two different bullets."

Zachary gives a curt nod. "Yes, thank you. I'll take it from here. Can you send Bright over to assist?"

"It's fine, I can assist you. No need for Bright," I respond. I make a motion to pick up the forceps again, but he takes hold of my wrist, stilling my movement. Confused, I look up at him.

"Bright and I will do it," he states, reaching for the same forceps I meant to take.

Through narrowed eyes, I scrutinize him, confused at first, then increasingly disgruntled.

 _Really?_

With a rebellious tilt of my chin, I insist, "I can do it. I don't mind at all." I have a feeling I know what he's thinking and I don't like it one bit.

"No nurse should be burdened with injuries such as these," Zachary says simply, while already searching the tent with his eyes, evidently on the lookout for Bright.

Does that really apply to nurses in general or is it a rule specifically for me?

He's been doing this for a while now, at least two or three weeks, increasingly trying to control which patients I get to treat or not to treat. I don't even think it's him doubting my ability to care for them, because he was fine leaving the private with the shrapnel-spiked back in my care, despite it being a much more serious case than the sergeant and his buttocks. It's more him trying to protect me, I think.

And that's when I so dislike being protected.

Yes, I was glad not to have been forced to declare the dying to be dead – or lost, at least – because I don't dare to do it. I _can't_ be an angel of death, because I don't know enough about death, and probably not enough about life either. And yes, Zachary was also right in sending me outside when we were treating the man with his head blown open and his brain on the floor. He was responsible for the patient and I was in shock and more hindrance than help.

But for all that, it still bothers me that he's started to keep me away from the patients with more, shall we say, _delicate_ injuries. I know every last inch of the human body after all, and the soldier's body better than the rest of them. That's why his actions are not only displeasing me, but are also perfectly irrational. It's quite a bit too late to try and protect me from the realities of life.

And besides, I'm still trying to figure out on what kind of authority Zachary Murray thinks he's allowed to protect me.

Right now, he apparently does realize I'm feeling mutinous. His eyes brush past me, back to surveying the room. "I mean it," he says, not looking at me.

I pull a face, but Zachary either doesn't see or simply doesn't react. Only the sergeant is smirking. As he notices me looking at him, he rolls his eyes. I turn away quickly. This isn't about him.

Bright suddenly appears next to Zachary's elbow and both look at me expectantly. I grit my teeth, because I'm not entirely sure of what I'd say if I allowed myself to speak. Best to keep the teeth firmly together then. I don't like Bright at the best of times and, just about now, Zachary isn't one of my favourite people either.

"Well, have fun then, you two," I wish as haughtily as I can manage, pushing my chin out and my shoulders back. As I turn my back to them, I'm almost certain to have glimpsed something akin to resignation in Zachary's eyes, but it's a bit too late for that now, isn't it?

Quickly, I walk away, to the back end of the tent. Only then do I stop, take a few calming breaths. It's never a good idea to try and care for patients when one is agitated. That's how mistakes are made.

Breathing seems to help a little against the hot knot of resentment coiling in my chest. Still, I'm _this_ close to going back and giving the great Dr Murray a piece of my mind, when my gaze falls upon another patient, quite by accident. He was only brought in this morning, I think. Taking a few steps to stand closer to him, I observe him intently.

"Hello Sister," he greets cautiously, as he notices me. His cheeks flush a dark, splotchy red.

Stepping closer still, I carefully extract a thermometer from my apron pocket. "Here, let's take your temperature," I order, "and don't break it!" This particular thermometer has managed to survive for two weeks in my care already and I'm growing attached to it.

Silently, his head bowed, the patient accepts the thermometer, putting the end into his mouth. Once that is done, I touch my hands to his forehand and neck and take a closer look at the wheals on his skin, then lift up his eyelids. After taking back the thermometer, I have a quick look into his mouth as well. The mercury of the thermometer column confirms my initial suspicions.

Raised temperature, swollen lymph nodes, strange wheals all over the body, ulcers to the mucosae, hair falling out in clumps, and a _very_ shameful demeanour.

Syphilis.

Excellent!

Naturally, we nurses are not allowed to treat VDs – venereal diseases – but for today, I'm quite sick of anybody telling me how to do my work. The famous Shirley temper might be lying dormant within me for most of the time nowadays, but that doesn't mean it's not there to break through if necessary. And as my father learned when a slate was broken in two on his head, Zachary Murray will learn that a fight against the Shirley temper cannot be won.

"Strip, please," I order cheerfully. A sudden panic takes hold in the patient's eyes, and I almost feel sorry for him, having become a pawn in my private little rebellion. On the other hand, though… his fault for getting himself infected with syphilis, isn't it?

Not that anyone ever speaks of syphilis outright, of course. There are special hospitals for VD patients, in which there are no nurses, the patients are kept isolated, and have part of their pay docked. Just because no-one is talking about it, doesn't mean it's not a problem though. Miss Talbot's brother worked in a VD hospital for a while and from what she told me, he estimated that there were times when up to a quarter of all Canadian soldiers were suffering from some form of VD. And a quarter is quite a lot, after all.

Very hesitantly, the patient follows my orders, and as he starts taking of his uniform, I almost regret my rash actions. Truth to be told, I don't _really_ want to deal with the symptoms of Syphilis. It's perfectly disgusting, after all. But I guess that, if I want to drive my point home, I have to resort to drastic measures.

Holding my breath and gritting my teeth, I examine him, thankful for my having rubber gloves at the very least. We don't always get them. My early diagnosis is confirmed by this more thorough examination, but there's fairly little I can do for him. He'll be transferred, to one of those special VD hospitals in England, and so I leave him with the promise of a few weeks in Blighty and regular arsenic injections that are said to hurt terribly. He doesn't seem quite sure whether to look forward to it or not.

I spent most of the rest of the day ignoring Zachary, which really isn't all that easy as he seems quite adamant not to be ignored. But I'm better at it than he is, so I manage to finish my shift without having spoken to him more than strictly necessary.

There's still some time left before supper, which is why I find myself in my part of the Nissen hut I am sharing with some of the other sisters. Flipping through today's post, I decide to read Di's letter first.

I took Ken's advice to heart and wrote to her, making an offer of support, should she be interested in having it. That wasn't altogether very easy, because one has to be careful how to phrase certain things when every letter is liable to be read by a censor. Still, I must have made myself understood, for while her wording is even more careful than my own, I do think she is glad. That's not to say that the thought isn't still… odd. And whether I like Mildred, I'm not quite sure either. But Di is still Di and for her sake, I suppose I'll get used to both, Mildred and the thought of them.

I've also ordered Di to make up with Nan and then I wrote to Nan and told her the same. I don't know whether that was the deciding factor, but they do seem to have reconciled after all. It's reassuring, I think. It felt as if the world wasn't turning quite the way it should be, when the famous Ingleside twins were not on speaking terms.

Whether Di has told Nan of her, well, _feelings_ for Mildred, I am not quite sure and I don't dare ask. At any rate, Nan seems to have confided in Di once again. Because while Di's letter starts out with reports of protest marches against conscription and rumours of women maybe being allowed to vote in the next election, it ends with a short paragraph concerning Jerry. Apparently, he has written to let Nan know that he was transferred in March, to a convalescent home for officers. _The Limes_ , they call it, in Crowborough. And a convalescent home is always a step closer to home – or back to the front line.

The news doesn't surprise me, for I have already heard them from both Walter and Shirley. Walter visited him once more back in February, when Jerry was still in Buxton, and has, in his last letter, expressed quiet doubt over whether it is a good idea to send Jerry back to France, should they really decided to take this course of action. Shirley has been to see him after his arrival in Crowborough and _he_ has declared the doctors to be as mad as some of their patients, should they attempt to send Jerry back to the front.

And as usual when confronted with Jerry's name, a memory flickers through my mind, of a grown man, panic-stricken, hiding beneath a bed because of hearing a certain word and because of all it represents. It makes me nervous, this memory, and so does the thought of what maybe lies ahead.

Perhaps Di is going about this the right way after all, I wonder? It might be unconventional and quite odd, her and Mildred, but at least no-one is ever going to expect Mildred to fight, neither in this war nor in another one. And, to be quite honest, love in times of war doesn't appear to be very desirable after all.

"Blythe?" one of my nursing colleagues interrupts my thoughts. "Dr Murray is outside and wants to see you."

I frown. I haven't spent half the day avoiding him only to have him bother me now.

"He didn't look as if he was willing to accept no for an answer," she informs me, seeing my reluctance.

And yet, it might do him a world of good to hear a _no_ once in a while, mightn't it?

Disgruntled, I fold my letter in half and thrust my swollen feet back into my boots. At least it's warm enough by now to make the heavy winter coat unnecessary. Just a few weeks ago it looked like spring would never come, but you can always rely on May.

Zachary is waiting outside the hut, cap in hand. As he sees me appear in the hut's entrance, he has the decency to look a little ashamed.

"You're angry," he states frankly.

For a moment I consider denying it, but that wouldn't be truthful. I _am_ angry. So I merely incline my head a little and wait.

"That's what I thought," he nods. "Would you still take a little stroll with me, though? There's something I'd like you to see."

"It's not long until supper," I point out.

"It's not far," he assures in return.

I shouldn't be going with him. Quite apart from me being mad, we sisters are not allowed to spend time alone with men. The army is very strict about that, even when the men in question are officers. I've always made sure never to be alone with Zachary when we're not working. And as for those few times Ken has been here – which I can count on one hand with fingers to spare – I've only spoken to him where we were in plain sight. Sure, there was that one time, during the concert in his unit's barracks, but that was perfectly harmless after all, and no-one seemed to have noticed. Which is just as well, because there have been sisters sent home for less.

Zachary notices my reluctance. "It's right over there. You'll be back in a few minutes," he promises. "I'd just like to talk to you for a moment."

With a heavy sigh, I step away from the hut. "Alright. But just for a few minutes," I warn. I intentionally speak loud enough for my colleagues inside the hut to be able to hear me. At the very least, I want to prevent this from smacking of secrecy.

Zachary nods solemnly and, with a motion of his hand, indicates which direction we are to take. I am careful to keep a deliberate distance between us, and if nothing else, he seems to respect that.

We remain silent until we have left the huts and tents of the CCS well behind us. We're walking to the north, away from the village, toward a copse of trees.

"You're displeased because I took over the patient with the bullet wounds," Zachary observes, once we're out of earshot of everyone else.

I give a shrug. "Not at all," I lie, trying for an airy, disinterested tone. "That way, I was free to care for the syphilitic patient, after all."

Deliberately not looking at him, I can still hear how my words make him break his stride for a second.

"The syphilitic patient?" he parrots, incredulous.

I don't answer. We've almost reached the trees.

Several moments pass in silence, before, suddenly, Zachary starts laughing softly. "You may not look the part, but you might just be the most stubborn person I know," he remarks.

And if his laugh has caused me to consider whether to maybe forgive him, his words have me hesitating again.

"I don't appreciate being told what I can or can't do," I inform him haughtily, "at least not when there's no logical reason for it."

Which probably only serves to underscore the argument he made about me being stubborn.

"Ah, you see, there are certain things… certain sights… I mean, it's just not necessary for… for a nurse to see them," Zachary tries to explain.

"Bit late for that, isn't it?" I retort, more brusque than intended. Still, it's true.

A soft sigh is his answer. "Can you blame me for trying?" he asks.

Actually, I can – and I will. Because I'm the only one who ought to decide whether I want to be protected and by whom. But I don't know how to put this without hurting him and anyway, I find myself starting to feel sorry for him. The worst of my anger seems to have abated.

So, in the interest of peace, I change the subject. "What did you want me to see?"

If this new subject surprises him, he doesn't let it show. Instead, he nods towards a cluster of trees to our left. Poplars, maybe? Botany has never been my strong point. Nature as a whole has always been Carl's metier.

"Over there," Zachary points out and I follow him towards the trees that might be poplars or might be something else entirely. When we have almost reached them I stumble over something hidden in the long grass.

"Careful," murmurs Zachary, taking hold of my arm to stabilize me. The moment I have regained my footing, I pry my arm from his fingers again, casting a vague smile of thanks in his general direction. Then, I take my time to thoroughly inspect the tripping hazard at my feet. It's a gate. An old, half-rotten gate. And when I raise my head again to look at my surroundings, I recognise the gathering of trees and plants as the ruins of what once must have been a garden.

Zachary has stepped away from me, bend down to some plants growing low on the ground. When he comes back, he hold out his hand to me with an almost shy smile. Inside are about half a dozen tiny, early strawberries.

A moment of hesitation passes, before I reach out to accept them. When I put one into my mouth, it tastes of childhood.

"Come summer, this will be a proper orchard," Zachary remarks. "That's a cherry tree right here and over there are pear and apple trees. Next to the strawberry plants are raspberries, and these are…"

"Blueberries!" I exclaim, having just recognised the shape of the plants' leaves.

"Blueberries for a bluebird," Zachary declares with a smile.

 _Bluebird_ is what they call us Canadian sisters, because of our blue uniforms. We're the only bluebirds in all of Europe, I think. I've yet to see our winged, feathered namesake, at any rate.

Blueberries, however, we have here as well as at home. They grow even on my island. When we were children, we sometimes held blueberry-picking contests. Jem won each and every time.

"We have blueberries at home," I tell Zachary, because I feel as if I should say _something_ at the very least.

"We used to have a whole hedge of blueberries in my parent's garden," Zachary replies quietly. "Rosie, my sister, loved them."

Past tense?

Questioningly, I look over to him.

"She died when I was eight years old. Diphtheria. After she was gone, my father ripped out the entire hedge. It was there in the evening and gone in the morning, same as Rosie," he adds. I can see how he struggles to keep his tone light, but he doesn't quite succeed.

And all of a sudden, the strawberries taste bitter in my mouth. Why does everyone always have to die?

"I'm sorry," I murmur. I reach out, touch his arm, a gesture of comfort. When I move to draw back my hand, however, he keeps hold of it, closes his fingers around mine.

Absentmindedly, he considers the blueberry shrub next to us. "I've always thought that one day, I'll plant a new blueberry hedge, so that my children have something to remember their Aunt Rosie by. Something to connect them to her."

There's a tingle at the back of my neck. Uncomfortable. I'm not quite certain I like the direction this is taking.

"That'll be nice, I'm sure," I reply anyway. Carefully, I try to extract my hand from his, but he's holding on tight. Not painfully so, but tightly enough for me to be unable to draw back the hand without him noticing.

He moves his gaze back to settle on my face. His eyes are filled with emotion. The tingle at my neck intensifies. "I thought…" he starts quietly, "I thought that maybe you'd like to help me one day? To plant the blueberries?"

For several seconds, it's perfectly quiet. Then, abruptly, I draw back my hand. The remaining strawberries fall to the ground without a sound.

"Yes, well, you never know. Maybe I will?" I answer, because I can think of nothing else to say. My mind is blank and my laugh sounds false even to my own ears.

Zachary appears to be moving to speak, but I don't let him. "Is it really so late already?" I exclaim, despite not even wearing a watch. "We should be heading back. Supper will be ready soon."

And without giving him a chance to reply or hold me back, I turn and flee. I think I hear him sigh, but I don't wait to see if he's following me. Instead I gather my skirt and hurry back towards the CCS, as fast as the soft forest soil allows.

I don't know much, but I do know that this, just now, should never have happened. I know that I ought to have listened to Ken Ford when he warned me about it, instead of pushing the thought aside. And I know with absolute certainty that I will never eat blueberries again, for as long as I live.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Roses of Picardy' from 1916 (lyrics by Haydn Wood, music by Frederick Weatherly)._


	23. It would be better so to part

_May 29_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 1 __Canadian_ _Casualty Clearing Station, Aubigny-en-Artois, France_

 **It would be better so to part**

"Miss Blythe?"

I turn around and spy Matron standing in the doorframe of her tiny office. With a wave of her hand, she motions me closer.

"Good evening, Matron Burke," I greet politely. "How can I help you?"

"Come inside for a moment, please. There's something I'd like to discuss," she says, taking a step back so I can enter.

Agatha Burke is the kind of matron every nurse silently prays for. She doesn't talk overmuch, but nothing escapes her notice and she considers it her most important task to make sure we are alright. In the first few weeks after the CCS arrived in Aubigny, there were no proper washing facilities for us nurses, except for a tin tub which each of us was allowed to fill up with two inches of lukewarm water once a week. Matron Burke bugged higher authorities for so long until we were allowed our two inches of water twice a week at least (though it did stay lukewarm).

All the more curious is her request then. It's unusual for her to ask us into her office and I have no idea what she could possibly want from me.

"Please, have a seat," she invites me, nodding towards a rickety looking chair that she has just relieved of a dangerously swaying pile of paper. She carelessly places the pile on the floor before walking around her desk, sitting down on another chair that looks marginally more comfortable.

Cautiously, I sink down unto the edge of my seat, my back straight, my hands folded in my lap. Only when I notice the matron's secret little smile, do I realize that I must look like a nervous schoolgirl. I loosen my hands, force my body to relax a little, even if, on the inside, I don't feel relaxed at all.

What if I have made some kind of mistake and she wants to inform me that they're sending me back home? Even racking my brain I can't come up with anything I might have done wrong, but there are so many rules and regulations in the army that the first time you ever hear about some of them is when you've already broken them.

"Did you enjoy your afternoon off?" Matron asks finally.

I look at her, a little unwilling. I want to know what's the matter, not make polite conversation! Still, I answer, "Some of us drove to Béthune and saw a moving picture."

"Did you, then? Which one was it?" she questions.

" _Poor little rich girl_ , with Mary Pickford," I reply.

Matron nods. "I've heard of her. She's Canadian, isn't she?"

I shrug. "I think so," I concede, but feel myself growing ever more impatient. What do I care for Mary Pickford, after all?

"Would you recommend it?" Matron enquires.

I only just manage to suppress a sigh. "It wasn't bad," I answer reluctantly. "It's about a young girl who's being neglected by her rich parents, grows delirious, almost dies and then doesn't die after all. It's fairly well done, but Mary Pickford must be older than I am. It's quite a hard sell even for her, playing the little girl splashing in the mud with the boys."

"I can imagine that," Matron agrees.

This time, I refuse to reply, stubbornly meeting her amused gaze. If she wants to talk to me, it's time she gets to the point instead of making inconsequential conversation!

Some more seconds pass, before finally, she does relent. "I received a letter today. From a Miss Tremblay."

"Colette?" I ask, surprised. Why would Colette have a reason to write to Matron Burke?

Matron observes me closely, her eyes twinkling amusedly in the semi-darkness of the room. "Yes, that is her name. A friend of yours?"

I nod, dumbstruck. My head it far too busy trying to think about whatever Colette could want from Matron Burke.

"According to Miss Tremblay, she has asked you to take your leave in June," the matron continues.

Another nod. Colette has sent almost daily letters these past weeks, trying to convince me to take my leave next month and spend it down at the Mediterranean coast with her. I'm not even saying I don't like the thought of it, only…

"You haven't asked me for leave," Matron points out.

"No, I…" frustrated, I break off, searching for words. "I don't want to… I mean, I _do_ want to take leave and I'd love to see Colette again, but I don't want to… well, _leave_."

Matron makes a thoughtful noise. Her eyes, settling on my face, are searching. "And might your reluctance be down to a certain doctor?"

She's talking about Zachary. Of course she is.

Shaking my head forcefully, I insist, "Dr Murray – for I take it you mean Dr Murray – does not factor at all into my decision."

Some more seconds pass, during which the matron thoughtfully inclines her head. Finally, she replies, "And yet I get the feeling that Dr Murray has a certain fondness for you." Her words are chosen carefully, I realize.

"I would agree with you," I concede, angrily shoving aside the thought of blueberries. "But such a fondness should exist on both sides, don't you think?"

"And in this case, it does not." She's not asking, so I don't answer. Instead, I wait to see what else she has to say. I still don't know quite where this conversation is heading.

Once she realizes I'm not going to offer up any more information, Matron adds, "It won't surprise you to hear that I deliberately removed you from the receiving tent and posted you to the operating theatre instead."

No, that doesn't surprise me at all.

Just days after our conversation by the poplars – days which I spent making sure never to be alone with Zachary – came the order to report to the operating theatre. And to be honest, I was relieved. For almost a month now I've been part of a surgical team headed by Dr Cormer, a kind, elderly surgeon with an absurd moustache and the talent never to lose his calm.

"I… I thought that might have been the case," I admit carefully.

"And I was surprised you did not protest against your new posting," Matron remarks.

I give a shrug. "Why would I? I like working as a theatre nurse, and it is interesting to have different assignments."

Which is, of course, _so_ not what she meant.

I don't volunteer any further information, however, and as she realizes this, she speaks up again, "I presume that by now, the whole unit is aware of Dr Murray's special fondness for you. He is, regretfully, not very discreet. And yet, for a long time, I was unsure of your feelings for him. I took your willingness to accept your new posting as a sign that you do not reciprocate his affections. Am I right in this assumption?"

Or else it might just be down to the fact that I am a good little soldier, doing what she has been ordered to do?

But Matron _is_ right, of course. Were my feelings for Zachary similar to his feelings for me, I might have asked to be allowed to stay in the receiving tent and thus, closer to him.

The matron seems to read my silence as acceptance. "Did you know that Dr Murray has asked me to re-post you to the receiving tent?" she enquires.

Now _this_ does surprise me. I really had not known about it. At my surprised reaction, Matron nods slightly, as if I have only confirmed something she's already assumed to be true.

Once more, moments pass, during which I try to organize my thoughts and she, apparently, organizes her words. Once more, it is her taking up the threads of our conversation again. "We've spent a lot of time talking in circles now, so I'm asking you outright – what are your feelings for Dr Murray?"

I grimace slightly. As if there ever was an easy answer to that particular question!

"I like him," I try anyway. "But I don't like him the way he seems to like me. I liked working with him – for the most part. And I would go as far as to call him a friend. I even miss him a little, but only as a friend. Apart from that, well… I tried. But where there's nothing…" Helplessly, I shrug.

Matron gives a thoughtful nod. "Where there's nothing, you can't force anything into being," she agrees. "And yet… are you interested in hearing the thoughts of an old spinster?"

She looks at me, questioningly, and I need a moment to understand that she is really waiting for an answer. She is offering me advice, but it's up to me to decide whether I want to hear it.

Slowly, I nod.

A beat, then she speaks, "When I was your age, I would have laughed in the face of anyone daring to suggest I'd ever find myself past forty and unmarried – which, let's be honest, is highly unlikely to change now. In my imagination I had the vision of an ideal man and none of them men I encountered in real life ever measured up to that ideal. And by the time I realized that ideals have no place in reality, there was no-one left for me."

I frown. I guess I've stopped understanding this conversation quite some while ago.

"What I'm trying to say is this," she continues, "There are worse things to base a relationship on than friendship. And there are worse prospects than a young, good-looking doctor wanting to lay the world at your feet. Romance is important, but should not let you forget to view things pragmatically as well. This war will cost the life of many a young man – and many young women will be left behind, will never marry, have children, have a family of their own. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, if it's of the woman's own choosing, but if it is forced upon her, it can be a bitter fate."

She falls silent, surveying me closely, as she lets her words sink in. I think I understand what she's trying to say, but… there's a discord in her words. I might be my father's daughter when standing in an operating theatre or dressing a bloody wound, but I'm starting to realize that I am my mother's child when it comes to matters of the heart. Romance I can do without, I suppose, but _love_ shouldn't be up for negotiations, should it?

"So you're saying I should agree to marry him because there might not be anyone better left after the war is over?" I question. Only once I speak the words out loud do realize how curt, even unfriendly they sound.

Fortunately, the matron doesn't take offense. "I'm only trying to tell you that you should be very sure before you refuse him," she clarifies. "Otherwise, there might yet come the day when you curse your younger self for it."

I wonder who she refused in her youth. And whether she curses herself for it now.

Instead, I say, "I was under the impression that personal relationships between personnel are strictly forbidden?"

Matron nods. "That's another thing, actually. I will send you on leave in June. I think it will do you good."

Now, I have no idea why my leave has anything to do with relationships between personnel, but I have no time to mull it over. "I don't want to leave," I quickly remind her.

"And why ever not?" responds Matron, raising both eyebrows.

I shrug. "I don't anyone to be burdened by additional work."

"It's not that much work anymore," she points out.

Truth is, she's right. There was the attack on Vimy Ridge in April, followed by an English offensive along the river Scarpe some two weeks later. I already experienced the fallout of two further attacks, during which the Canadians captured Arleux and Fresnoy, in the operating theatre. For several days, we were operating on them without break, until I couldn't tell one patient from the next. But ever since, things have quieted down, both at the frontline and here in this CCS. During the past two weeks especially we had maybe two days with larger transports – two or three hundred patients. More often than not, days pass without even one new patient being brought in.

"Besides, I'd like to stay in the area," I add, changing my argument. "My brother expects to be back from his training course in a few days. The Canadian troops are all stationed in the general vicinity and I thought that maybe, if I'm here, I might be able to see him sometime."

Shirley's four and a half months of training are almost over. He's already send a photo of himself in his new lieutenant's uniform, and, attached to it, the news that he expects to be in France within the next few days. And much as I detest the thought of him being closer to the frontline again, I had at least held out hope of being able to see him.

Matron nods thoughtfully. "I do understand that," she concedes. "But I have to tell you that this entire unit will be posted elsewhere soon. We've received orders this morning to evacuate the patients and pack up."

"Where are we going?" I ask while trying to fight down my disappointment at not being able to see Shirley. I miss my family.

" _We_ will be posted north, to the coast," Matron answers. " _You_ will accompany Miss Tremblay south on leave, and afterwards I will recommend that you are transferred to a different unit."

Abruptly, I raise my head.

What?

The matron is quick to explain. "Please don't think it's because I am unhappy with your work. Quite the contrary, actually. You are a good, capable nurse. What you lack in experience, you make up for by being willing to work that much longer, that much harder. I'll be sorry to see you go."

"Why send me away then?" I want to know.

I don't understand it.

She sighs. "I've already mentioned that the whole unit is aware of Dr Murray's affection for you. And as you have said, relationships between personnel are strongly discouraged. I think it best to separate you."

"But we are not in a relationship. I don't regard him in this way," I protest, frowning.

"And I believe you," she assures.

"Yet you're sending me away," I point out. I feel myself growing angry. At her, at him, at whoever made those rules.

Another sigh from the matron. "This will seem unfair to you and I do understand that," she says. "But I am asking you to see my side of this situation as well. My job is to protect the sisters under my command. Not only from physical harm, but from talk as well. Your reputation must always be spotless. We are a group of very few women in a world dominated by men. That alone gets people talking and we can only prevent it by being above any kind of reproach."

"Are you saying I'm not?" I demand to know.

"Of course you are," she asserts quickly. "I have no doubt about it. But people talk. I've tried to curb it by posting you to the theatre, but apparently, that wasn't enough, especially as he still makes his feelings quite clear."

I clench my jaw, adding, "And that's why I'm being sent away." It feels as unfair as ever.

"It's simply not within my power to send him away," she explains. "To do that, I would have to lodge an official complaint and I don't want to do that. It's easier to transfer you to a different unit."

"Which they'll then record in my file in London as if I'm some common _harlot_!" I spit out the word, glare at the pile of paper on the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Matron shaking her head. "They won't," she promises. "That's the reason why I think this is excellent timing, actually. You're taking two weeks of leave, during which this unit will relocate. While we move, all sisters will be posted temporarily to other units anyway. No one will bat an eyelash when you're posted elsewhere permanently instead of following us north."

For several moments, I consider her argument. Then, reluctantly, I nod. I may not like it, but I have to admit that she is making sense.

"I'd still prefer to stay," I persist anyway.

"And we'd like to keep you," she replies kindly. "Still, I think this is the best possible course of action."

I press my lips together, but don't protest. "Where will I go?" I ask instead.

The matron raises her shoulders in the imitation of a shrug. "That's out of my hands," she explains, sounding truly sorry. "But I can send a recommendation if you want to. They factor it in, if they can. Would you like to return to England? You have another brother posted there, don't you?"

I nod absentmindedly. "Yes. Walter," I confirm, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

"Very well, then I shall recommend that you be sent back to England", she remarks, suddenly appearing busy. "I do think that…"

Holding up one hand, I interrupt her. "I don't want to go back to England," I clarify. "You're saying I can't stay with this unit and if that is so, I want to be with a unit _like_ this one. There are other CCS, aren't there?"

She furrows her brows. "There are three. A fourth is expected to open shortly."

"There you go. I want to be posted to one of those," I declare forcefully.

Her frown deepens. "Are you sure? Work in a CCS is certainly more strenuous than in a bigger hospital farther removed from the frontline. It's not unusual for a nurse to be sent back to one of these after having served with a CCS for some months," she points out.

"I don't care about what's more strenuous," I argue back. "But you did say I'm doing a good job, right? And I feel _useful_ here. Far more useful than ever before. So I'd like to continue working where I can be useful and I think that's at a CCS."

She doesn't appear convinced of my argument, so I quickly add, "We'll do it just as you said. Leave, then transfer. But in exchange, I'm asking you to write a recommendation asking them to post me to another CCS. If I have to go, that's only fair."

It's with some reluctance that she nods and there's doubt in her eyes, but she _does_ nod. "I can't promise anything though," she warns.

I incline my head to show that I have understood.

Matron rises, and I hurry to get to my feet as well. "Alright," she says, "Then you'll write to your friend now, tell her you're going to accompany her south. I expect the other sisters to leave in about a week and it makes sense for you to take your own leave then as well."

"I will," I assure her. Now that she has agreed to write that recommendation, I find myself feeling more benevolent towards her.

She hesitates for two or three seconds before adding, "And you should think about what you want to tell Dr Murray. I can only advise you to resolve this situation between the two of you before you leave."

I pull a face. _That_ 's one conversation I could really do without. She probably does have a point, but this threatens to become uncomfortable, even more so as I'd hate to hurt him. Because that's the paradox, isn't it? I don't like him enough, but I like him too much to tell him that. It would be easier if I didn't care for him at all.

"Yes, maybe," I mumble, knowing that I'm convincing neither her nor myself. I understand her reasoning, but… let's be honest, when have I ever been good at taking advice?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Never mind!' from 1913 (lyrics and music by Harry Dent und Tom Goldburn)._


	24. And picked the daisies fine

_June 11th, 1917  
Nice, France_

 **And picked the daisies fine**

Eyes closed, I turn my face towards the sun. It feels warm on my skin. Behind me, the sea is murmuring gently. An insect buzzes near my left ear. Lazily, I raise a hand to shoo it away.

"So you _are_ awake!" Colette exclaims immediately, making it sound decidedly accusing.

Quizzically, I open one eye to look at her.

"I thought you were asleep," she explains, slightly peeved. "Though how you could ever sleep on ground as hard as this is beyond me!"

Remembering the camp bed I've slept in these last few months, I can't help but smile.

"What's there to laugh at?" Colette demands to know. She doesn't miss a thing, Colette does.

With some reluctance, I open my second eye as well. Taking the time to stretch thoroughly, I sit up and look at her. "Nothing," I soothe, "It's just that my camp bed over at the CCS was only marginally less hard than this ground is."

"Well, I wouldn't know, would I?" she shoots back. "Not when you hardly ever talk about that CCS of yours."

She does have a point. Ever since I arrived in Nice some days ago, I've felt a curious reluctance to talk about the CCS. Maybe it's just that I don't want to destroy the illusion of peace surrounding this place. It does make for a nice change to be listening to the sea for once instead of the distant guns.

"It's actually not my CCS anymore," I clarify. "I reckon not even God knows yet where they're going to send me once my leave is over."

"Matron-in-chief MacDonald would know," points out Colette.

Matron-in-chief MacDonald is the highest ranking nursing sister of the CAMC in Europe, and controls every last of our steps from her office in London. No Canadian nurse sets foot in a CAMC hospital here in Europe without having trembled under her strict gaze beforehand.

"Still, it's doubtful that she'd inform God of her plans, don't you think?" I ask with a smile.

Colette grins. "No, I bet she doesn't even answer to God himself."

I raise my shoulders a little, so as to indicate a 'there you go', before moving to stretch out on the ground again. Colette, however, quickly intervenes, "Hey! I didn't give you permission to fall asleep _again_! Had I known beforehand that you'd spend the entire time sleeping, I would have asked someone else to come on leave with me."

My sigh turns into a yawn quite seamlessly, but I do stay upright. "What else do you want to do then?" I enquire. My fingers dig into the earth a little, already somewhat dusty in June. It has transpired, much to Colette's displeasure, that the beaches around Nice are mostly made up out of rocks and pebbles, which is why she has found us a space on a cliff above the city to while away our time.

"Tell me about your CCS," she now demands. "With the linguistic situation being as it is, it's unlikely I'll ever get to leave Saint Cloud, so I have to live vicariously through you."

This time, I do sigh. "What's there to tell, really? It's exhausting and bloody and dirty. I hadn't had a proper wash in about three months before arriving at the rest home here."

The army has established a series of rest homes in both England and France, where we nurses can spend our free time. For them, there's the decided advantage that the higher-ups can always be certain of our whereabouts. Add to that the fact that most rest homes are financed by well-to-do donors, so they don't cost the army even a single penny.

Colette huffs. "I know all about dirty! You should have seen the facilities we had in Saint Cloud at the beginning. We had one measly enamel tub for all of us to wash in. The tub they had placed on a wooden floor in a tent, and as there was no drainage, we had to tip out the water all over the wooden floor to renew it. Not that we were allowed to renew it very often anyway. And then there was another tent with a row of commodes and that was that – the sanitary facilities for all nursing sisters."

I frown thoughtfully. "What happened?" I wonder. Because while the sanitary facilities are usually not up to scratch over here – and getting worse the closer one gets to the front – my memories of those at Saint Cloud aren't all that bad.

"Matron MacDonald inspected the unit least year in July. She must have given someone quite a talking to, because afterwards, conditions improved markedly," Colette explains with a shrug. "She's also sent the matron of No. 6 CGH to us for a time, and you can bet she was tasked with putting things in order."

You really have to hand it to Matron MacDonald. She has a reputation for scrupulously making sure that not even the whiff of a scandal surrounds us nurses, but at the same time, she makes sure to take our side and doesn't shy away from a fight with higher authorities if it means improving our living or working conditions.

"Looks like I don't need to tell you anything about sanitary matters then," I point out to Colette. Truth to be told, I simply want to lie back down and enjoy the warmth of the sun some more. But I don't expect Colette to be willing to let me off the hook anytime soon.

And sure enough, she considers me through narrowed eyes. "Not at all! Though I do wonder why you want them to post you to another CCS, if they're as dirty as you say they are. You could have used Ezekiel's advances as an excuse to have them send you further back. You even could have tried coming back to Saint Cloud!"

"Zachary," I correct. "His name is Zachary." My voice catches in my throat.

Colette, however, just waves it aside. "Zachary, Ezekiel – a prophet is a prophet."

Which leaves me to ponder whether to be irritated at how blasé she's treating this, or to be glad that she doesn't attribute more importance to it than there is.

I rub my face in my hands for a moment and as I look back up, I notice Colette eying me curiously. "What?" I ask, wary.

"I've just been thinking about why you rejected Ezekiel," she answers casually.

" _He's not called –_ " I start, but interrupt myself when I see the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She's perfectly aware that his name is not Ezekiel.

So, rather than continue speaking, I turn my attention to plucking some daisies that have made the mistake of growing too close to my left hand. I collect the tiny flowers in my fist and almost crush them, but then decide against it. It's just daisies, after all. When I open my fist, the flowers flutter to the ground. For several moments, they just lie there, all messy, until Colette gathers them up and starts braiding them with nimble fingers.

I watch her work in silence for some seconds. "Why do we dislike Ezekiel again?" she asks.

"We do like Ezekiel," I correct resignedly and only the tiny smirk on her lips makes me realize that I've now jumbled my prophets as well.

"But we don't like Ezekiel well enough to marry him," Colette points out.

Surprised, I look at her. "How do you…?" And once more, I realize too late that she's set a trap and I just walked into it.

I glower at the innocent daisies – for truly, is there a flower more innocent than a daisy? – but Colette merely laughs, clearly unconcerned. There's triumph in her voice when she speaks, "So you could have married him, yes? But you didn't want to?"

With a sigh, I shake my head. "No, I didn't want to", I confirm.

Colette wrinkles her nose. "Why not? Is he ugly?"

"No, not ugly. He's… good-looking enough? A little on the tall side, maybe, but not ugly," I answer hesitatingly. Truth to be told, I've never really considered Zachary's looks before.

"Old?" Colette further interrogates.

I shrug. "I don't even know his age. Thirty, maybe?" But it's really only a guess.

Colette nods thoughtfully. "So he's a good-looking officer, not too old, and probably with decent prospects for after the war, what with him being a doctor. And, apparently, quite smitten with you?" she clarifies. "And you didn't want him."

"And I didn't want him," I confirm. Why is that so hard to understand?

Colette grins suddenly. "I could imagine there was at least one other sister ready to scratch your eyes out for it," she remarks with apparent relish.

"Two, actually," I admit and find myself smiling as well. "Though I don't see what their problem is. I mean, they can try their own luck with him now!"

"Indeed they can. So long as you don't change your mind and decide to return to stake your claim yet," she points out.

I shake my head with some vigour. "I won't change my mind. They can have him and welcome!"

Colette considers me for a moment, head cocked to the side. Her fingers are still busy braiding that daisy wreath. "Are you _really_ sure?" she want to now.

With a frustrated sigh, I let myself fall backwards. "Why does everyone want to set me up with Zachary Murray? You, Matron, even goddamned Kenneth Ford!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Colette sit up straight, suddenly alert. Even the wreath sinks into her lap, momentarily forgotten. "Who's Kenneth Ford?" she asks curiously. "And why is he damned?"

Ah, drat.

"Kenneth Ford is a friend of my brothers. I've known him my whole life," I tell her, as matter-of-factly as possible. "He had some business to attend to in my CCS and we talked once or twice. And you can wipe that smirk off of your face right this very second! This isn't about him, except for the tiny detail that his was him pointing out Zachary's interest to me in the first place. As if I couldn't have done without _that_ information!"

I turn my head, only to see, much to my chagrin, Colette still grinning widely. "And why is he damned?" she persists. She's enjoying this far too much, if you ask me.

"He isn't…" I start, only to interrupt myself once more and sigh. Not that I could hope for sympathy from Colette. She's got the scent of something juicy and she will hunt it down with all the tenacity of a Dachshund chasing a squirrel.

"He's engaged. Happily, from what I know," I try to convince her. "So he's truly not worth that smirk on your face."

Colette just shrugs. Her smirk is as wide as ever. "Engagements can be broken," she informs me.

"Oh, and do you want me to tell that to Maurice by any chance?" I snap back, rising half-way to get a better look at her. I can't imagine she'd be particularly happy if he called off _their_ engagement. What right, then, does she have to judge the promise of two other people so casually?

Alas, to no avail. "He'd never," is her unconcerned reply, with all the confidence of a woman who knows that her man would never leave her.

Shaking my head, I let myself sink back into the grass, my gaze moving upwards to the clear blue sky. It's almost devoid of clouds.

Minutes pass, me looking at the sky and Colette presumably back to working at her daisy wreath. When she does finally talk, her voice is apologetic. "Don't be mad, please. I'm just trying to find out what's the matter with you. You aren't all that easy to understand sometimes, Rilla Blythe. I just thought that goddamned Kenneth Ford might be the reason for why you rejected Ezekiel, even though he makes for such a perfect fit on paper."

I've never managed the art of staying mad at Colette. I've tried and I've failed and so I spare myself the effort and just forgive her. I allow myself the tiniest of hesitation, then I sit back up.

"On paper maybe," I admit slowly. "Truth to be told, I've tried liking him _because_ he's such a good fit on paper. But I never could shake the feeling that… that if I let him, Zachary would smother me before too long."

Colette is eyeing me closely. "What do you mean, 'smother you'?"

Yes, what do I mean?

"He's… terribly friendly. Always has an open ear, cares for others – not just for me but for everyone. But the longer we worked together, the more he tried to care _too much_ for me. Kept me from certain tasks that he considered too cumbersome for me. Tried to tell me what to do and what not to do. Made sure that I was not even told some things. It's just… I don't like it." I shrug, feeling a little helpless.

She observes me through narrowed eyes and I meet her gaze openly. If I can hope for understanding from anyone, surely it's Colette? With the one exception of my mother, she might be the only person I know who fights boundaries more stubbornly than I do.

At least she's thoughtful now and the smirk is gone as well. "I think I understand," she admits slowly, "but… but maybe he's just been trying to protect you? You are a young woman in a world that is really no place for a young woman to be. You are dear to him and he worries for you. Doesn't it make sense, then, that he'd be trying to protect you?"

Ken has never once tried to protect me.

I shake my head, trying to shake off the thought as quickly as it has appeared in my mind.

This is different, isn't it?

I don't mean a thing to Kenneth Ford and he doesn't spend even one second worrying for me. No comparison to Zachary. It would be unfair of me to compare.

And yet… during those few conversations we've had, he was always honest, even when honesty hurt. And not only has he never tried to protect me, he's never made me feel as if I needed protection in the first place.

I give a frustrated sigh.

I could never mention any of this to Colette, that much is clear.

"This isn't about whether it makes sense or not," I answer instead. "But I want to decide on my own about when I need protection – and who is allowed to give it to me."

"And that's not Ezekiel?" she adds.

"No, that's not Zachary," I confirm. "It's no one, to be honest. I'm quite alright on my own right now."

Colette gnaws on her lower lip, eyes thoughtful. "That's what I thought, you know. Until Maurice came along. Now… it can be nice, to have someone. Even to need him."

I incline my head slightly to admit her point. "I'm not even saying it isn't, but I want to be the one to decide who I want to have or need. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, maybe," Colette replies, though reluctantly. As she notices me taking note of her reluctance, she smiles apologetically. "Sorry. It's just that I am so happily in love myself that I want everyone else to be as well."

With a shake of the head, I deny the need for an apology. "It's alright," I assure. Then, the memory of a blunt conversation on a cold evening in March rising within me, I smile wryly, adding, "Besides, I do think you'd like the goddamned Kenneth Ford. He said something similar to me once."

Immediately, Colette grows alert again. "Then you have to introduce us one day!" she demands.

I nod, secure in the knowledge that this particular opportunity will never present itself.

Colette, on the other hand, seems to have realized that there's nothing left to say about my nonexistent love life, and seeing as we've already discussed _her_ much more viable romance in quite some detail, her thoughts move on, looking for another thing to talk about.

I know which subject she'll inevitably settle on even before she does.

"Do you think war will be over this year?" she wonders.

Of course it's the war. It's always the war.

"Who knows?" I reply, resigned. "A couple of weeks ago I might have said that yes, maybe it will be. But now…"

Spring brought us the capture of Vimy Ridge, but it soon transpired that the English and French units to the south of our Canadians had not been able to match their success. The French especially have been forced to call off their attempt at re-taking the Chemin des Dames, another ridge in the Champagne, after incurring heavy casualties. Ever since, there are some whispered rumours about unrest in the French army, in the whole country even. A restlessness, hard to grasp at, but noticeable.

Colette sighs. "When I heard about the Yanks finally getting around to entering the war, I really thought it would be over soon," she admits. "But that's been two months now and where are they, the great Yankees?"

To be fair, you have to remember that we Canadians needed a good six months as well before we had been able to send troops to France and even those were only partly ready for action, from what I heard. But I do know what she means. The USA entering the war felt like the yearned-for fulfilment if some long-standing promise – now, though, it has a stale taste to it.

"And I defy anyone who claims to understand the Russians!" Colette adds. "Was it a good or a bad thing that they did away with the Tsar? Everyone I ask has a different opinion."

"For the man and his family, it's probably tragic. From a military standpoint… well, someone told me that he didn't do a very good job of being commander-in-chief," I relate. No need to give a name to that _someone_.

Colette nods, thoughts already moving onwards. "And what's going on over in Italy?" she wants to know, inclining her head towards where the Italian border must be, not so very far away from where we are sitting.

I think back to a newspaper article I read about the fighting along the Isonzo River some days ago, and grimace in answer.

Another sigh from Colette, but she doesn't add anything more. Instead, she bends over her wreath and knots some stems together. It takes maybe half a minute or so before she raises her wreath in triumph. I know instinctively that we are done with war talk for today.

Leaning forward, Colette carefully places the wreath of daisies on my head. "There!" she declares, "Now you are a true Beltane fairy."

"So as long as no one attempts to burn me as a witch," I retort wryly, adjusting the wreath a little.

"Ezekiel would never allow it!" Colette assures and laughs brightly at my glare. In a flash, she is on her feet, and already half-way down the cliff before I have even gotten up.

"What are you waiting for? We're going swimming!" she calls out to me.

Shaking my head slightly, I follow her, but I cannot help a smile. There's something about Colette, so genuine and entirely herself, that always succeeds in making me feel a little more hopeful.

I hurry to catch up to her, clutching my daisy wreath tightly.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Auld land syne' from 1788 (lyrics taken from a poem by Robert Burns (itself probably inspired by an earlier song by James Watson), music as per a Scottish folk song (possibly 'The Miller's wedding'))._

 _Matron-in-chief MacDonald is Margaret Chlothilde MacDonald (1873-1948), the highest ranking nursing sister in the Canadian Army Medical Corps during the First World War. Beforehand, she had served in the Spanish-American War as well as in the Second Boer War. In 1906 she was one of two nurses accepted into the Canadian Army. A full-fledged member of the army, she was the first woman in the British Empire, maybe in the entire world, to reach the official rank of major._


	25. Some beautiful flowers

_June 26_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Remy Siding near Lijssenthoek, Belgium_

 **Some beautiful flowers**

There's an unsettling beauty about the flowers covering the graves. Red as the blood that has drenched this soil time and again. So fragile that, once plucked, they live but a minute.

If the daisy is the most innocent flower on this earth, then the poppy is the most tragic.

I let my fingers glide up the flower's stem, gently touch the almost translucent petals. I shouldn't pluck it. Death has walked this part of earth far too often already for me to let a flower die now, without any reason at all.

Very gently, I touch my fingertip to the edge of a petal. Silently, my lips form those famous words, written by a Canadian doctor, just a few short miles from where I am standing.

 _In Flanders fields the poppies blow_  
 _Between the crosses, row on row,_  
 _That mark our place; and in the sky_  
 _The larks, still bravely singing, fly_  
 _Scarce heard amid the guns below._

 _We are the Dead. Short days ago_  
 _We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_  
 _Loved and were loved, and now we lie_  
 _In Flanders fields._

 _Take up our quarrel with the foe:_  
 _To you from failing hands we throw_  
 _The torch; be yours to hold it high._  
 _If ye break faith with us who die_  
 _We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_  
 _In Flanders fields._

With a jolt, I yank at the poppy, fling it at the nearest grave.

A _quarrel_? Really? That's what we're calling it now?

And as for that torch – make that no-one catches it, that it may fall to the ground and be extinguished there. Maybe then this world would be delivered of graves and wooden crosses and seas made of poppies.

If there ever was a lark in this place, it, too, has stopped singing. Has abandoned trying to sing against the guns. It's not even thunder anymore. I have no words for the sound they produce.

There's no place on this earth like Flanders.

Possibly, it was a peaceful place once, where people lived and loved and laughed. Now though, Flanders has become the epitome for this war, plunging the world into fire and blood. It's the cruellest of places in this cruellest of wars.

The day I arrived here, the Germans bombed Poperinghe and hit a train. Eight casualties, they said. I don't believe in providence, but I am beginning to think it was an omen.

Vimy Ridge was horrible. No one who was there will ever deny it. But Vimy Ridge is nothing compared to Ypres. Ypres, this one lonely town in the otherwise occupied Belgium that our troops still hold and defend, for almost three years now - at whatever cost. A sliver of Belgian land that the Germans try to take again and again, only to be repelled at each try.

Ypres is a trapped city, enclosed on three sides by the slim, deadly stripe of frontline. The names of surrounding villages have become synonyms for the battles fought here. Gravenstafel, Langemarck, Poelkapelle, St. Eloi, St. Julien. And one look at the map reveals countless of other villages to name their future battles for.

It was in Flanders where the soldiers dug in in the autumn of 1914 and started this horrible trench war. It was in Flanders where, in the spring of 1915, the very first gas clouds poisoned our soldiers. And it was in Flanders where, just last year, Jerry was wounded.

I pluck another poppy from one of the graves.

Poperinghe is a small town west of Ypres. Lijssenthoek is an even smaller village south-west of Poperinghe. And close to Lijssenthoek there's a patch of land that once was a farm of which now only the name remains. _Remy Farm_. Four CCS they have massed here. Ours, No. 2 Canadian CCS, is the last one in the row. Beside us are the English from No. 10, and then our compatriots from No. 3 Canadian. Opposite them, on the other side of the rail tracks, yet more English, of No. 17. Taken together, they form one of the biggest field hospitals in this war.

The size of the graveyard is in proportion to that. It is directly to our left, having grown in what amounts to almost three years of war. And every day we see them, the wooden crosses, keeping watch over their dead.

Rows upon rows of crosses. Some of them elaborately carved, painted white, anchored in the ground. Others crooked, weather-beaten, hastily nailed together. Each cross holds watch over a dead man, and the poppies cover them all.

If Ypres falls, the way to the French coast is clear. If Ypres falls, we lose this war. There's nothing we wouldn't do, no price we would not pay, to keep those few miles of blood-red land. And as long as this war continues, they will grow, the poppies on the graves. Like a blanket for the dead.

My fingers clench around the stem of the flower. The tiny hairs bite into my skin. I close my eyes, but instead of darkness, there's red, red, red.

Then, abruptly, something – shell? bomb? – explodes. Not far – not far _enough_ – away. The sudden sound, the echo. I start, open my eyes wide. It's still red. This entire wold is red. Maybe I'll never see anything red, for my entire life, without being reminded of Flanders.

Another explosion. The ground trembles. Instinctively, I reach for the nearest cross. As if it could hold me. It trembles as much as the ground they've stuck it on.

At Vimy, we were far enough behind the lines to hear the shells without being threatened by them. Here, it's different. Poperinghe, lovingly called Pop or Pops by the men, is the one place where all paths meet, of soldiers and weapons and munitions – and, most important of all, food. The Germans know that. They often let their planes rise above our heads. We're right next to the rail tracks, leading westwards. The railway is the lifeline of this war. No trains mean no supplies. Accordingly, the Germans have rather a high interest to destroy the tracks next to our CCS.

Additionally, I reckon they grudge us Messines. English troops took the Messines Ridge, to the south of Ypres, back when I was still lying on that meadow in Nice, a world away, and had Colette braid me a daisy wreath – it's not even been three weeks and yet, it feels like an eternity. When the English took the area surrounding Messines, the enemy lost an observation point over Ypres and they didn't like it one bit.

Accordingly, not a day has passed since my arrival without something exploding, often far too close, unnervingly close. They say we are beyond the reach of the German guns, but it doesn't feel like it. And though many planes are confined to aerial reconnaissance, they drop bombs almost as often. You quickly learn to watch them with suspicion, the way they're up there in the sky, like mosquitos in front of the sun.

The next explosion seems to be further away again. The sound isn't as loud. I turn to look into the direction from where it comes, and only now do I see that we are not alone on this cemetery, the dead and I.

I identify that oh so familiar blue uniform immediately, and as I shield my eyes against the sun, I am quite certain I recognize Miss Inglish. We both work on the resus ward, with 'resus' being military speak for 'resuscitation'. Often, that's to be taken literally.

I raise a hand in greeting. A beat, then she returns the gesture. Another moment of hesitation, during which we both stand there, considering one another over the rows of graves. Finally, she comes closer. It surprises me a little, to be honest. She's one of the most reserved people I know – and I grew up with Shirley.

When there are just two more graves separating us, she halts abruptly. She doesn't offer a word, even appears a little surprised at finding herself standing opposite me. So, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "Not interested in meeting a prince either?"

It should probably be considered a distinction that The Duke of Connaught and his son, Prince Arthur, have deigned to honour us with their presence today. It even makes sense, I guess, considering that the Duke was Governor General of Canada until last year and, as the representative of the King, commander-in-chief of the Canadian armed forces. Still, one does wonder what his presence here is meant to achieve.

Miss Inglish raises her shoulders in a shrug. "I come here often," she explains, "To be alone."

I just want to start apologising for disturbing her solitude, but then decide against it. Who's said that she has any more of a right to this graveyard than I do? And aren't we both merely guests here, after all?

Instead, I just nod.

A pause.

"Bad news?" Miss Inglish suddenly asks, nodding towards the letters peeking out of the pocket of my apron.

Through narrowed eyes, I consider her. I wonder why that would be any of her business. Up until today, we have spoken no more than three sentences to one another. But she doesn't seem to be the nosey type. Maybe she's really only trying to offer help, in her brusque, angular way.

So, I reply, "My brother is sick. Two years he's managed to hang on here, and now malaria has finally caught him."

Something flits across her otherwise impassive face. "Dr Blythe is sick?" she asks, voice halting.

My eyes narrow some more. "You know him?"

"No. 1 Canadian Stationary Hospital?" she asks back.

I nod. That's Jem's hospital.

"Then it's him," she confirms. "I came to Europe with that unit. I was on Lemnos with them, and in Salonica."

"How come you're here now?" I want to know.

"I was sick as well. And now I'm here." Her voice has a warning tone to it now and I leave it at that. Apparently, it's not a happy memory.

Once she notices that I do not mean to pry, she relaxes a little. "I'm sorry. About your brother," she offers.

With another nod, I accept her statement.

She, however, isn't finished. "It must be hard on them, with Dr Blythe being sick. I remember how much he held them together over there. He has a talent for keeping up the mood even when things get hard."

She's certainly right about that one. It's a particular talent, not given to the rest of us. Only Faith has it. Maybe that's why they were meant to be.

"He was a great favourite with the nurses," Miss Inglish remarks and a tiny smile darts across her face.

"He's married," I point out. Now it's me sounding gruff.

Her gaze fastens unto my face. She has intelligent eyes.

"I know that," she replies. "Everyone knew that. Because every time he received new pictures from Canada, he showed them to every last person in that hospital. We've always said that if we manage to find ourselves a husband who loved us only half as much as Dr Blythe loves his Faith, we could count ourselves lucky."

Slowly, I nod. There's truth to what she's saying. Jem and Faith have a special connection, the kind of which I've only ever seen with my parents before.

"Not that it did anything to deter half of the sisters from nursing a fancy for him," Miss Inglish adds. Once more, there's a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Not you either?" I ask. I make sure to keep my voice friendly. I don't mean to pry, only… I'm a little curious, I guess. It's interesting, hearing something about Jem's life in far away Greece. And it's a relief to hear that, through it all, he's still _Jem_.

Miss Inglish shrugs. "Only inasmuch as every sister has a liking for a handsome doctor at least once in her life."

Involuntarily, I grimace, which Miss Inglish doesn't miss. She raises an eyebrow questioningly.

"Not a pretty story," I explain. As I did earlier, she, too, leaves it be, but I spy something akin to sympathy in her face. In all likeliness, she's thinking that I was in love with a doctor and got rejected. She's wrong, of course, but I don't correct her assumption. No need to dig up painful memories, is there?

"Can you give Dr Blythe my regards?" Miss Inglish asks. "From Laura Inglish? Tell him I was the sister that was buried by her tent during that storm at Lemnos and needed rescuing. Maybe he'll remember me."

For a moment, there's a kind of wistfulness in her eyes and wonder if it was really only the usual fancy felt by a nurse for a doctor. Then I let go of the thought. There are few things on this earth I am as certain of as the love of Jem and Faith, and if Miss Inglish liked him a little too much from a safe distance, that's none of my business.

It was different with Zachary, but I do know the feeling of being caught in a hopeless infatuation. That was long before this war was even a possibility in people's head and I always knew it to be futile, then as now. That's what made it perfectly harmless though. The only person you can hurt with such feelings is yourself.

"Sure, I'll tell him," I promise. Then, I hesitate. "I mean, that's if he…"

If he'll still be around to read my next letter. I know little about malaria, which is an exotic and strange illness, but I do know enough to realize it's not a good thing to have. Malaria is liable to kill, as effectively as a German bullet does.

Miss Inglish picks up upon my change in mood. She takes step towards me, then stops. Opens her mouth, only to close it again, biting down on her lower lip. Finally, she does speak, "I don't know if it's any consolation, but I don't think malaria will hurt Dr Blythe. He wouldn't let it."

I let her voice sink in. And then, quite suddenly, I have to smile. "He's stubborn," I agree. "All of us are."

Because a certain tenacity runs in my family. It has to, maybe, because we got it from both of our parents. It can manifest itself in an obvious way, as with Jem and Nan, or more quietly, like it does with Shirley or even Walter. But whatever form it takes, stubbornness is a trait we all share.

Maybe it really will be that stubbornness forbidding Jem from losing to malaria.

It's probably irrational and yet, the thought is calming. And that means rather a lot, because there hasn't been much to calm me in recent days. Walter might be safe back in England, but really, what about the rest of them? Jem sick, Shirley back at the front. Only God and Lord Jellicoe know where Carl currently is. And as for Jerry, he's been with the Officers Casualty Company in Bexhill since the beginning of the month. It's where officers are sent to get back in shape after an injury or illness – and from where they are then sent on to the trenches. I have no idea if Jerry is well enough to continue fighting (truth to be told, the thought alone makes me sick with fear), but I do know that out of a four week course, three weeks have already passed. Baring a miracle, he'll be joining Shirley at the front sometime next month.

If I'm completely honest, I sometimes wish myself back to March. It was cold then, but at least all our boys were safe. Walter and Shirley and Jerry in England. Jem in Greece, but healthy. Somehow, I can't shake the feelings that it's been downhill ever since. The only possible silver lining is that maybe Jerry truly is better, if they're sending him back. But I've learned not to trust everything the army says.

I turn my gaze back towards Miss Inglish. Silence has fallen between us. She's looking into the distance, to the east. My eyes settle on the grave by my feet instead. The mount of earth is still fresh, not covered with poppies yet. The cross is built from raw wood, the name scratched into it.

 _Private William Warner_  
 _1896 – 1917_  
 _Royal Northumberland Fusiliers_

Sometimes, when I read the names on those crosses, I wonder what kind of person he was, the men hidden by name and cross. What kind of life he lived. How he died. Whom he left behind.

But I'll never know that, will I? He's just another name on one of the countless crosses they have erected. Do they really think these men will be remembered, once this dance of death is over? Every last one of them?

Sure, his parents will remember William Warner, maybe his siblings, if there are any, or his sweetheart. But who's to come after them? When everyone who knew him is dead and gone, won't he be just another faceless dead? An unknown, having died for something that I'm not sure those coming after us will even understand. What will remain of this dead boy, but another wooden cross, standing in line?

Another explosion, somewhere to the left of me. First bang, then rumble. I wince.

"Come on, we should leave," Miss Inglish remarks with a slight shake of the head. "This is a good place when one wants to be alone, but it does lend itself to dark thoughts as well. Maybe that's why you're alone here more often than not."

I nod, if a little hesitatingly. There's truth to what she's saying, I think. It _is_ a place for dark thoughts, possibly even more so because of the redness covering it. It's unsettling, this contrast of the poppies' bright beauty and the death hiding beneath them. And suddenly, I feel uneasy. There's a shiver running down my spine. I don't want to be here any longer.

Instead of turning to leave, however, Miss Inglish remains standing still. "Did you know that, in the language of flowers, red poppies signify joy and happiness?" she asks thoughtfully.

Then she falls silent. I follow her gaze, look down. The poppy in my hand has wilted.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The Rose of No Man's Land' from 1918 (lyrics by Jack Caddigan , music by James Alexander Brennan)._

 _The poem 'In Flanders Fields' was written by the Canadian physician and lieutenant colonel John McCrae (1872-1918) in 1915. It remains perhaps the most well-known Great War poem._

 _The Duke of Connaught is Prince Arthur, 1_ _st_ _Duke of Connaught and Strathearn (1850-1942), third son of Queen Victoria. From 1911 to 1916 he served his nephew, King George V, as 10_ _th_ _Governor General to Canada. Through his eldest daughter, Princess Margaret, he is the great-grandfather of the current Swedish King, Carl XVI Gustaf._

 _Prince Arthur is Prince Arthur of Connaught (1883-1938), only son of the Duke of Connaught. From 1920 to 1924 he served as 3_ _rd_ _Governor General to South Africa. He was married to Princess Alexandra, 2_ _nd_ _Duchess of Fife (in her own right), who was a granddaughter of King Edward VII through his eldest daughter Princess Louise, Princess Royal._

 _Lord Jellicoe is John Rushworth Jellicoe, 1_ _st_ _Earl Jellicoe (1859-1935), a high-ranking officer in the British Royal Navy. From December 1916 to July 1917 he served as First Sea Lord and, before that, was commander of the British Grand Fleet during the Battle of Jutland. From 1920 to 1924 he served as 2_ _nd_ _Governor General to New Zealand._


	26. Gallant son of freedom

_July 29_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Remy Siding near Lijssenthoek, Belgium_

 **Gallant son of freedom**

There aren't many doctors in the resuscitation ward. Doctors care for the living, and sometimes, for the dead. Those teetering on the brink between life and death, however, they send to us. It's our task to pull them back on the living side, to close the door on death before it can step through.

When they bring them to our tent, they're in such a bad shape that further transport, treatment, an operation are unthinkable. To put it plainly, they wouldn't survive any of it. But some doctor has taken a look at them and decided there might be hope for them yet. That's the moment when we sisters from the resus ward are called upon. We're meant to nurse them back to some semblance of health so that, hopefully, they can be handed back to the doctors, to receive a treatment to finally save their lives. That, or they're declared a _moribund_ case.

Moribund, of course, means they're doomed.

If we fail in breathing life back into them, they're left to die. All the more reason for us to fight for each and every one of them, stubbornly, persistently.

The majority of our patients are in a state of shock. Not in the sense of an emotional shock, which one gets after having suffered through a horrible experience – though that's certainly true for all of them. For us, however, shock is primarily a physical thing. Shock is when the body fails. Like a machine, slowly breaking down, piece by piece. If we don't succeed in stopping this process, in turning it around, death will be the outcome.

I bend down to look at a young man they've brought in only minutes ago. His face as deathly-pale, his lips bloodless. Laying my hand on his forehead, I can feel his skin, clammy and cold. I reach for his pulse, only an unsteady fluttering beneath my fingers. His body is shaking. There's a bandage around his chest, covering the wound responsible for his state.

Quickly, I reach for two woollen blankets. The most important thing is to get warmth back into them. Only when they're warm does blood flow pick back up and only then do they stand a chance. Those remaining cold hardly ever survive.

Deftly, I wrap the young soldier in both blankets, taking care not to touch the wound. I secure the blankets to both sides and at his feet, so they make up a nice cocoon for him. I know the men to sometimes joke about how tightly we pull the blankets over their beds, so that, ostensibly, they're unable to move afterwards, but at least it prevents them from kicking away their blanket in their sleep and catching a cold.

"Ma'am?" a quiet voice behind me asks.

I turn my head and see Cooper, arms laden with hot water bottles.

"Thank you," I murmur, directing a fleeting smile in his direction while I already reach for one of the bottles. Quickly, but without haste, we place them all around the pale man's body.

I like Cooper. I would even go so far as to say that, out of the orderlies in this CCS, I prefer working with him most of all. He's only a couple of years older than I am and yet, he appears much wiser than people normally are at thirty. He speaks very little, but has a talent for reading minds. It might be considered disconcerting when, as he did just now, he suddenly appears with all those water bottles before I had a chance to ask him for them. Either that, or it's just tremendously helpful.

"Can he have coffee?" he enquires, watching me from the side with his attentive, unwavering gaze.

I look down at the patient, then slowly shake my head. "I have no idea what's beneath that bandage," I explain. "I think it's better not to give him anything to drink yet. Besides, he doesn't have the appearance of someone even _able_ to drink." Ever since they brought him in, the patient has slipped in and out of consciousness.

"So we'll put him on a drip," Cooper replies matter-of-factly. It's not even a question and before I have time to nod, he has already turned back towards the supply cart and starts preparing an infusion.

Warmth is the most important thing. Warmth from within, warmth from without. We have blankets and hot water bottles for the outside part, and for the inside, we have tea or coffee, preferably with a good slug of brandy or whiskey or whatever spirits we can procure. Apart from warmth, there's the need to get fluid into them and that's best accomplished by using saline drips.

I cast a critical eye over the patient in front of me. He's swaddled in so tightly that a healthy person would not be able to stand the heat, but colour has not returned to his face. Once more, I feel for his pulse. Just minutes ago, it was a hurried, but noticeable fluttering. Now I have to press my fingers down hard on his pulse point to even a slight movement. And even then, it takes for too long for the tiniest of thrums to beat against my fingertips.

"I don't like his pulse," I remark without turning around to Cooper. "I'd better give him an injection of camphor." Maybe that will normalize his heartbeat somewhat.

Cooper makes a quiet noise to indicate assent, and I hear the soft clink of glass. Only moments later, an already prepared syringe is pressed into my waiting hand. I don't bother with checking it. Cooper knows what he's doing, and I know that I can rely on him.

Cautiously, I administer the camphor injection, murmuring some soothing nonsense when I feel the patient flinch for a second. Once finished, I start hooking him up to the drip. He's fallen unconscious again, which makes the always complicated task a little easier.

When I finally step back from the bed, I notice Cooper watching me silently. "Will you stay with him?" I ask. "Keep an eye on him?"

"Of course, Ma'am," Cooper nods.

I take a further step backwards. "Call me when he wakes up. Maybe he can have some coffee then," I add.

Another nod from Cooper.

Another step back.

"And call me if he gets worse as well," I finish, even though we both know that we have done all we can for him. It's up to him now. If he doesn't rally, he's one of the moribund cases.

 _Morturi te salutant_.

The cynical voice inside my head sounds rather a lot like Shirley, disturbingly so. I wonder where he is right now?

But then I shake my head, shake off the thought. I can be of no more help to Shirley than to the pale patient on the stretcher.

If my behaviour confuses Cooper, he doesn't let it show. Or else, there's just nothing left in this world to invoke Cooper's confusion. I give him a parting nod, then turn around, walk through the hut, towards a new stretcher and a new patient.

This one is awake. A private with a round face, watching me with wide eyes. His eyes are pale, almost colourless, like water. He has maybe the palest eyes I've ever seen.

"Hello," I greet him, even as I do a first examination.

The private does not answer. Only the pale eyes move, flitting back and forth. He shows no resistance though, and lets me finish my exam easily enough. His skin is as pale as his eyes are, his breath comes in short gasps. His pulse races, his blood pressure is far too low.

So far, so terribly normal. But there's something else. Through narrowed eyes, I survey him, bending closer and pulling the blanket down a bit. His left shoulder is covered in boils. They look a lot like burn blisters and in a way, that's what they are, only in a much more perfidious way.

It's been more than two years since the Germans used poison gas against our troops for the very first time. Ever since, both sides have tried to surpass each other in its use. Everyone has seen the victims of chlorine or phosgene. Pitiful creatures, struggling for breath, choking, retching, clenching, finally suffocating.

In the beginning, the soldiers were exposed to the gas without any means of defence. Now, there are masks that are able to fend off the worst of it. Even we nurses have been given masks, should the worst happen. Recently, there have been rumours of a newly created German gas that makes our soldiers take of their masks, only for them to suffocate on the simultaneously launched chlorine. But for now, it's just that. Rumours.

The devil's stuff that hurt this little private, however, is very real.

It was probably two weeks ago when the first patients stumbled in, their whole bodies covered in large blisters, their eyes redly-infected, their lungs burned. At first, we had no idea what we were dealing with, but news travels fast at the frontline and the front is not so very far away. It's a new kind of gas the soldiers speak of, yellow and brown-ish in colour, smelling of mustard and garlic, burning the skin wherever it comes in contact with it. Masks don't help and neither does clothing.

The Germans have a new poison gas and we have nothing to protect ourselves against it. It's the spring of 1915 all over again.

Pulling the blanket away completely, I see the blisters snaking down from his shoulders over his chest. The moment the blanket is gone, I can hear the man heave a sigh of relief. I know little about this new devil's gas, but I do know how wickedly those blisters must hurt. It's almost a miracle that he accepted the blanket in the first place, and might just be down to the fact that he was too weak to fight it.

I am still trying to decide what to do with him – the usual procedure of hot water bottles and a cup of coffee with a little extra will hardly suffice – when he suddenly flinches violently.

It takes a moment or two, but then I realize what has scared him. My own mind takes no notice of it anymore, but now that I do pay attention, I hear the menacing growl above our heads, slowly subsiding. A mere month ago I was sure I'd never get used to it, but the explosions have become just another noise of everyday life here. Not a day passes when the bombs and shells don't fall.

"Hush," I sooth. "It's only thunder. A storm. Nothing to be scared of."

Truth is, it might just as well _be_ thunder. There's hardly any difference in the sound. If one closed one's eyes and _wanted_ it to be true very, very much, it's almost possible to believe in it really being just a storm.

With the one difference that storm are hardly ever fatal, and the bombs so often are. Last week, they hit an Australian CCS not far away – four fatalities. Poperinghe has been shelled almost constantly in the past few weeks. And only a couple of days ago they brought us the nursing sisters from an English CCS, stationed a little to the east and subjected to heavy shelling.

War has never been this close. And yet my reaction is curiously detached when, just moments later, another growl gives way to a bang. You have to learn to ignore it or it will drive you mad.

I do what I can for my little private with the pale eyes and the blistered body. We know shockingly little about this new gas, so there's shockingly little we can do against it. At any rate, the patient's condition, for whatever reason, stabilizes as little, so I have him send back. Let the doctors decide what to do with him. It's out of my hands.

For a moment or two I watch as they carry him outside. I stand between two stretchers, stretching my arms backwards and letting my shoulders roll. There's a persistent knot of tension somewhere close to my scapula, travelling upwards towards the neck. I've tried getting rid of it in the past few days, but no luck so far.

"Ma'am?" sounds Cooper's voice, a little to my left.

I turn my head a little. The overwrought muscles in my back twitch in protest.

Cooper answers my silent question with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. I sigh. So the boy with the chest wound didn't make it. I should have known. Chest is nasty, almost as nasty as abdomen. Still, I always hold out a little hope for them to pull through. I'm too much of an idealist in that respect, I fear.

"If you have a moment," Cooper continues, "There's somebody out there to see you."

Surprised, I turn a little more to look at him. The next moment, I press a hand against that painful spot at the back of my neck. I really should stop trying to move my head at all.

"Who is it?" I enquire, rubbing my hand along my tensed-up neck.

He indicates a shrug. "An officer," he adds, which is ever so unhelpful. Officers are a dime a dozen out here.

When he doesn't volunteer any further information, I nod gingerly, hoping not to aggravate my neck muscles any further. I survey the ward with a critical eye. The majority of patients have been treated and cared for. The first transports already reached us before noon today, which is quite early for the army and has also ensured that now, in early evening, work is already winding down for us.

Time, I decide, for a break.

"Would you mind showing me?" I ask. Cooper mumbles some unintelligible thing, then turns around and crosses the hut in a few long strides. I follow him. I might not be altogether very ready to admit it, but I'm certainly curious to see who's come to visit me on this god-forsaken spot of earth.

I follow Cooper through that bewildering array of huts and buildings that make up a CCS. How odd to think that, a mere three years ago, this was an actual farm! We walk over to the entrance of the CCS, and there, right next to a small patch of garden, there's a figure leaning casually against a signpost, noticeable in his perfect stillness. He just stands there, legs crossed, taking in his surrounding with mild interest. When he notices me though, his face is lit up with a smile for the briefest of seconds.

"The devil himself," I murmur, thinking of my earlier musing about his whereabouts.

Cooper turns to look at me. "What did you say, Ma'am?"

I consider explaining, but end up just shaking my head. "It's nothing," I assure. "You can take a break now as well, if you want to."

He nods in assent, but we both know that he won't take a break. Cooper never takes breaks. He starts working and then he works as long as there's work to be done. The thought of taking a break would not even enter his mind, I'm sure, much as I have tried to remedy that in past weeks.

Instead of furthering what I know to be a lost battle, I just nod at Cooper and turn back towards the man next to the signpost. Just a couple of steps and I am next to him. When I throw my arms around his neck, I register the tiniest of hesitations, but just when I want to ask, his arms close around me and it feels right again.

"What are you _doing_ here?" I want to know, looking up at him. The new uniform makes him look older, somehow.

"Not happy to see me then?" Shirley retorts and raises an eyebrow.

His hold on me loosens and I let go of him as well, give him a slight smack against his shoulder instead. "I was surprised," I clarify. "I am _always_ glad to see you."

"Quite certain, are you? For a moment there, I thought I saw a bit of disappointment even," he teases. His lips are smiling, but his eyes remain dark, I cannot help but notice.

"You're imagining things," I declare, shaking my head decidedly.

Shirley might have said something in return – he never pries, but then, he never passes on an opportunity to tease me either – but then he just sighs tonelessly and shakes his head very slightly. His gaze leaves my face, travels eastwards. His eyes follow the road, a winding line towards the front, towards the enemy.

"They're preparing for another offensive," he remarks.

I nod, a little impatient. This isn't news to me. There's something in the air, has been for days. It's almost tangible.

"They built us a second operating theatre," I point out. "They'd never build us a second operating theatre if they weren't sure that we'd find a use for it. Besides, I think they're amassing troops in the general area."

A nod of my brother confirms my observations. "It was nigh on impossible to come here," he replies. "The trains are loaded to capacity. I had to get off and walk several times. Otherwise, I'd probably still be stuck on one."

I look at him, surprised. A second, then the surprise gives way to wariness. "Not that I don't feel honoured that you want to see me so badly to take on such strains, but…" I break off, let the sentence hang, wait for him to react.

Shirley's gaze flits to the side once more, and suddenly, I know. Something has been off about him the entire time and only now do I realize what it is. He doesn't hold eye contact. There are people out there who can't bear to look into another's eyes for any length of time, but Shirley has never been one of them. When we were children, he won every staring contest there ever was. Now though, it only takes a few seconds for him to avert his gaze.

"Shirley…" I start slowly, "What's the matter?" I have a bad feeling about this. I'm not sure I really want to hear his answer.

Now he does look at me. A sticky ball of fear is caught in my throat. I take a gulp, but the fear remains.

"Jerry is dead."

That's it. I take a breath. The fear is gone, having given way to something else. A coldness spreading through my chest.

"Now you tell me," I remark. My voice is steady. I don't think to question his words. I am, I realize, not even surprised. There's only an infinite sadness.

"I didn't know how," Shirley answers, raising his shoulders in the imitation of a shrug.

I nod. For him, more than for anyone else, it must have been especially hard to deliver a message such as this.

"What happened?" I want to know. I'm a little surprised at hearing my own voice. I hadn't realized I was about to ask a question, much less this one.

"I had been given leave and was just about to make my way to the train, when I learned that Jerry's battalion had just returned from the trenches. His new battalion is part of the same division as my unit. I figured I'd run over, have a look at him, see how he is, and take a later train. But when I reached the barracks and asked for him, they told me to hurry so that I could make it in time for his funeral." Shirley's voice is monotone, as it often is when he is forced to speak more than a couple of words. Mum's talent for storytelling has neatly bypassed him.

"How was the funeral?" I ask, because I don't dare ask how he died.

Shirley gives a helpless shrug. "What do you want me to say? There's no romance in a soldier's funeral, because they always have to be quick. Besides, they hardly knew him. He was with them only a month, after all. And…" he trails off.

"And?" I prompt, trying to ignore the cold taking root within me.

He hesitates, for several long seconds, and when he does answer, his voice is raw. "The men in his unit say he did it on purpose. He knew they were to be pulled out of the line the next morning, and he still left the trenches at midnight. They tried to hold him back but he just shook them of. They say he always used to be nervous before, always twitchy, but in that night, he was suddenly very calm. He lit a lamp, climbed up the trench ladder, and before he had reached the top, he fell back down. Back into the trench, with a precise, round hole in his head."

There's no need for him to tell me that no-one – but _no-one_ – who still has his senses halfway together leaves the trenches in the middle of the night, and certainly not while holding a lamp. It's a right invitation to the German sharpshooters and not one they've been known to pass up. I can think of but two reasons for why someone would act like that: either, they don't know what they're doing anymore – or they want to die.

No telling what was true for Jerry.

Finally, Shirley looks at me, and suddenly I wish he hadn't. There's something terrible in his eyes that I don't want to see, not in the eyes of my big, little brother.

I, on the other hand, am still strangely calm. I'm not even surprised. Horrified, of course, and sad, but not surprised. I turn my attention inwards, listen, and there's a voice there, very calm, very matter-of-fact. _This is how it ends. You knew it would end like this._

I had hoped for a different outcome, of course I did, but every time I remember how I knelt before that bed under which Jerry was hiding from a word and a memory, I knew, somewhere deep down inside of me, that he wouldn't survive this war another time. The moment I learned that they were sending him back, was the moment I foresaw his death. Maybe that's why I am so calm now – I had weeks to prepare me for the inevitability of this.

But I'm the only one, am I not? Maybe Walter has suspected something similar, maybe Shirley isn't wholly surprised either, even though the shock is there in his eyes, plain to see. At home, however, they couldn't have known – feared it, yes, but not known. They had to have hope and faith in him making it through, and in my family, hope is part virtue, part foolishness.

I raise my head to meet Shirley's gaze. "You can never tell Nan," I say. "The news of Jerry's death alone will almost be enough to kill her. _This_ … this could be the last straw. She can _never_ know."

Shirley nods, but somehow, that doesn't seem enough. Acting on impulse, I spit into my own hand, hold it out for Shirley to take. A spit oath, the kind of which we have not performed in very many years.

And yet when, after a second of hesitation, Shirley takes my hand, and it feels right. It feels right for us to resort to this old oath of our childhood days to protect our sister from a knowledge that has the power to shatter her.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Keep the Home Fires burning' from 1914 (lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello)._


	27. The road between us stretches

_August 19_ _th_ _, 1917_ **  
** _No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Remy Siding near Lijssenthoek, Belgium_

 **The road between us stretches**

Whenever I get mail, I sort my letters according to the probability of their containing bad news or sad information. Then, I read the worst one first. If I am lucky, I'm reasonably cheered up again by the last letter, even if the first was a bad one. Only sometimes do I break my order. For some letters, I have been waiting too much to let them lie. Jem's letter is one of those.

Miss Inglish has been right. Jem was simply too stubborn to lose against malaria. If you read between the lines – and you have to, with Jem – it's evident that it wasn't an easy battle. He admits to having been ill for several weeks, even writes that he felt "pretty wretched". For Jem, that's quite the admission.

The letter is short, but when I fold it back into its envelope, I feel lighter than I have done in weeks. I even feel – _almost_ – strengthened enough to take on my next letter. It is from Mum.

I swore Shirley to secrecy – with the one exception of Carl, because news always takes longer to reach him – and neither did I write a line about Jerry in my letters. Cowardly, maybe, but I didn't know how to write without giving rise to questions I cannot answer.

So I let things take their natural course. Everything within me resists the thought of there one day having been a moment, not so very long ago, when Ingleside's telephone rang, only for the disembodied voice to announce "a telegram for Mrs Meredith". Still, this is how it must have happened. This is how I _let_ it happen.

My fingers are slow in opening Mums letter, sluggishly so, because my very being baulks at having to read its content. And yet, there's no helping it. I take a deep breath, close my eyes for a second and then begin to read.

She opens with the news of Jerry's death. They don't know much yet. The telegram was short and they hope for a letter from his commander.

The letter will come. It is the superior officer's task to write to the bereaved, same as we nurses write when one of our patients dies. But just as we are not truthful in these letters, neither are the officers. The phrasing may differ, but the content is the same – quick, painless death, no suffering, etcetera and on.

I am never quite sure whether it's cynical, dishonest or merciful. But then – I'm no better, am I? I hold back the truth, same as the army does. Maybe it _is_ merciful then – or cowardly, maybe that, too.

The next two paragraphs in Mum's letter are almost unbearable to read. They contain hardly any details but they don't need to. I can imagine the details just fine on my own.

Faith took the call. The others were in the living-room and Mum writes that she has never seen Faith as pale as in the moment she appeared in the doorway. He was her brother, after all. I am so used to think of Faith as Jem's wife and the mother of Ian and Sara that I sometimes forget that she's loved Jerry long before any of us.

They were the oldest children. Old enough to understand what was happening when their mother died. Old enough to try and protect their younger siblings during the following years when, by all accounts, their father had turned his back on the world. Glen lore has it that it got much better when Rosemary entered their lives, but those early years must have been formative. Still, Jerry was the older one. Now that he's dead, Faith is suddenly the eldest and I wonder how that makes her feel.

It fell to Mum to carry the news over to the Manse, because Dad was out and no one else was able to. She writes that the Reverend aged ten years in but a second. Good, kind, gentle Reverend Meredith. And poor Rosemary, who has loved Jerry as a son for the past fifteen years. As for little Bruce – how old is he now? Thirteen? No one should be forced to encounter death at thirteen.

Mum was also the one to make the telephone call to Toronto and call Di. Not just to call her, but to call her _back_. And you can always rely on Di. She took the evening train out to return home as soon as humanly possible. It's good. Nan will need her – Nan, who fell into a state of such shock that Mum is not even sure how much of it she has even realized yet.

Because the Reverend and Rosemary may have lost a son. Faith, Una, Bruce and Carl – wherever he is – have lost a brother. But Nan has not only lost her husband, but her future as she thought it would be. And there's no telling how much time or strength she will need to build a new future for herself. Or if she will succeed.

She has Connie and I think that's incalculably important, but even Connie will not compensate for her loss. Connie, who will now never know her father. It is, maybe, the most heart-wrenching part of what is already an utterly heart-wrenching tale.

There is no more information in Mum's letter. She must have written it just hours after that fateful call. But at the very end, she takes a moment to address a few lines specifically to me. "Please take good care of yourself, daughter of mine. We may not have wanted you to go to Europe in the beginning, but we know how important your work is – maybe now more than ever. And yet, we ask you to take care. We are proud of you and we love you, but we are also hoping for the day when we can fold our little girl into our arms again."

I lower the letter and blink away a tear.

It takes a moment until I have composed myself enough to that I can turn to the next letter. It's from Una and for a second, that surprises me. Una writes faithfully and regularly, despite us never having been all that close and my answers certainly lacking, but still it's curious that she finds the time to write to me of all people, so shortly after having learned of her brother's death.

A quick glance at the date explains it though. Una's letter is two days older than Mum's is. The postal service does quite a good job, even across the Atlantic, but they don't manage to get our mail out here every day, so letters often accumulate a bit before being delivered.

Una's letter, at any rate, is strange. Rather, the letter itself isn't strange at all, it's just strange to read it. It is filled with commonplaces. She writes about both the congregations of her father and her father-in-law, about her piano pupils, about the last bake sale, about Mrs Magnus MacAllister's horrible new hat. She also mentions that it looks like Fred, who has been in England since the beginning of June, will stay there for the foreseeable future. He has been posted to a reserve battalion for service in the orderly room. She's relieved, and I can understand her. It won't make for a very exciting story when the greatest adversaries in war were boredom and the English weather, but at least no one has died from boredom yet (I'm not so sure about the English weather though).

As I re-fold Una's letter, I do so with a tight-wrought lump in my throat. I wonder how long it will be until she is able to write such a harmless, ordinary letter again.

Now there's one last letter left and this one does not disappoint. It is from Betty and Polly. They're still together and still in England, but have been posted to a special eye and ear hospital in Folkestone a while ago.

They write at least once a week, and every letter is always from both of them. The handwriting switches within a paragraph often enough, and sometimes even within a sentence. The letters are up-beat, filled to the brim with amusing little epistles and anecdotes. I know that their life isn't all sunshine and rainbows either, and that working with blind patients must be a burden often enough, yet you'd never know it from their letters. And I am grateful to them for the effort of writing happy letters, just for me.

This particular letter manages to makes even me smile after but a few lines. Apparently, the transfer to Folkestone has paid off for Polly especially. She's going to get married!

One of the doctors in her hospitals managed to catch her interest on the very first day and from that moment on, she did not rest until he noticed her as well. That's according to Betty, at the very least. The wedding will be sometime at the end of the year or maybe early next year and it is certainly very sweet of her to invite me to it. I have no idea where I'll be by then or what I'll be doing, but I do know that if I can, I'll be there.

The one drop of bitterness, and this they both agree on, is that they will be separated after the wedding. Apparently, there's been a new directive since last month that forbids nursing sisters from staying with the CAMC after their marriage. I did know that married nurses were not accepted in the first place, and that it used to be the _done_ thing to leave service after getting married, but that they made it into an order now I hadn't yet known. But then, it holds no interests for me anyway.

The English nurses, Polly reports indignantly, are allowed to marry and keep working, though they usually find themselves re-posted to England. It appears to be one of the very few instances in which they have an advantage over us, but that is easily explained. From what I gathered, there are quite a few unmarried, trained nurses still in Canada, waiting for their turn. The English, however, seem to have no idea from where to take any more nurses. They aren't yet desperate enough to allow VADs – members of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, who often fulfil the role of auxiliary nurses in English hospitals – at a CCS, but according to all accounts, they are almost more numerous than trained nurses in basically all other hospitals.

But whatever the reasoning behind the new directive, it means that Polly will have to leave the CAMC once she marries her doctor. She does assure that she intends to stay in England, and would apparently even consider joining the _Queen Alexandra's_ , the English nurses, but for one glaring drawback: "I don't know if I can bring myself to wear that hideous uniform!"

It is that last sentence that causes me to lower the letter with a smile. It's just what I needed after all I have read before. Like a little nudge, a reminder that life always goes on, in whatever way.

I stretch, roll my shoulders once or twice, before gathering my letters, forcing my feet into my boots, and getting up. The walk towards the tiny telegraph stations makes for a surprisingly nice stroll. The worst fighting of the newest offensive has only just died down a little and even the clouds have parted to allow a bit of sunshine through, just for a change. The ground, of course, is still a quagmire, but at least I won't get wet.

Telegrams are expensive, so we usually resort to letters only, despite a letter from Canada often taking a fortnight to cross the Atlantic. (Letters from England, on the other hand, I sometimes receive in as little as two days.) But I have to let Faith know that Jem is better. He will have written to her as well, no doubt about it, and certainly before he wrote me, but there's no knowing when she will receive that letter. Mail from Flanders to Canada takes two, sometimes three weeks. Salonica is closer to me, geographically speaking, but the postal service out there is less than reliable. With Jem's letter home not only having to cross the Mediterranean but the Atlantic as well, it may easily be September until Faith holds it in her hands.

So I send my telegram – my pay has mostly been accumulating in some bank account or another anyway – and stroll back to the CCS afterwards. I have long ago given up on trying to keep my boots free from mud, and the pretty white summer shoes I brought along have never even been unpacked.

Somewhere in the distance I hear an airplane, then, an explosion. It's far away, but I still turn my head. The bombings have increased considerably in recent times. The English over at No. 17 CCS have only just received two bombs – fourteen dead among the personnel, and ten wounded POWs. That's prisoners-of-war, so it's the Germans bombing their own, basically. Rumour has it that our CO – commanding officer, that is – is considering having a dug-out built for us nursing sisters. I'm not quite sure what to make of the idea. I mean, sure, the bombs are one thing, but… an underground dug-out sounds awfully… _suffocating_.

Still, what to do? Sighing softly, I shake my head and walk on.

I have only just reached the CCS and am just turning towards the hut where our Sister's Mess has been established, when I register a movement out of the corner of my eye.

Turning my head, I am just fast enough to see Cooper struggling to his feet. Standing close to him is a group of other orderlies. One of them takes a step towards Cooper, seems to speak to him, but one of his chums casts a nervous glance in my direction and pulls at his sleeve. All four turn to me – Cooper turns away.

Without quite noticing, I have advanced upon them. "Is there a problem here?" I ask sharply.

The ringleader has the audacity to shake his head. "Quaker-Cooper just slipped. Isn't that right, Quaker-Cooper?"

Such brazenness leaves me speechless for a moment, and the four, recognizing an opportunity when presented with one, hastily take their leave. The ringleader is even cheeky enough to casually salute me, then they have disappeared in the general bustle of the CCS. Shaking my head, I look after them, before turning back to Cooper. He looks down at his hopelessly muddy uniform and makes for a miserable sight.

I sigh. "You shouldn't always let them get away with it."

Cooper shrugs without looking at me.

"I mean it!" I persist. "We have to report this, otherwise they'll never leave you in peace."

He raises his head to glance at me quickly, before looking back down on his muddy sleeve. "It's not so bad, Ma'am," he assures. "No harm done."

"But they shouldn't be allowed to get away with it!" I call out, slightly frustrated by his reaction. "Just because you are a Quaker doesn't give them the right to treat you like… like…" Struggling for words, I break off.

"Many people do not agree with the Friends opposing the war, Ma'am," Cooper politely counters.

I grit my teeth. Is he _defending_ them now?

My answer, then, turns out a little more aggressive than intended. "So what? Quakers are pacifists, everyone knows that and everyone is free to have an opinion on that, but _you_ are here, aren't you? You're doing your bit, same as those four morons, and _goddammit_ , you're doing a better job than they do!"

He actually, physically flinches at my curse. I think that's why I did it. At least it procured a reaction that is different from the peaceable, humble, yielding spectrum he usually walks.

Seconds later, he's got himself back under control. "I do my best, Ma'am," he answers simply.

I give a frustrated sigh. "So I'm not allowed to report it?"

It's not the first time we have this discussion, Cooper and I. Every time, I try to convince him to allow me to bring these incidents to the CO's attention, and every time all my stubbornness proves to be no match against his quiet persistence.

"I'd ask you not to, Ma'am," Cooper responds, quite as expected.

I look at him, slowly shaking my head. "You are a saint, Cooper," I declare. It's not necessarily meant as a compliment.

"Far from it, Ma'am," he immediately objects.

"If so, you're still much closer to being one than any other person I know," I amend.

The tiniest of smiles creeps onto his face. "If you say so, Ma'am."

"I do say so! And now go and clean yourself up," I order. "I'll tell the ward that you'll be a moment."

"Very kind of you, Ma'am," he acquiesces.

I watch him walk away in his muddy uniforms, his steps soft but determined as the approaches the orderlies' lodgings. Sometimes I wonder how it can be that two such different people as Cooper and the Kaiser exist on the very same earth. And how it can be that the better person is the one history won't remember.

Upon entering the resuscitation ward, I am greeted by the usual activity. The offensive, which Shirley and I had been expecting, came just after he left. It was the last day of July and – well, it wasn't the _Somme_ , scale-wise, but it was bad enough. There was more territory gained, the casualties were fewer, but when I'm being honest, it was the first time I truly realized quite _how_ bad things must have been last year.

They started another attack some days ago, just two weeks after the first one. And I'm not saying those attacks were failures, strictly speaking, but it's a lot of push and push back. Our troops took Pilckem Ridge and, only just, Langemarck. I suppose those are good news, but I don't understand enough about how it fits into the greater picture. I only see the wounded from those attacks, and that's bad enough.

We have mostly English patients, with some from Australia and New Zealand sprinkled in. The Canadians are still in France, having taken a Hill near Lens in the past few days. _Hill 70_. They say it was a diversion, to keep the Germans from moving more of their own troops to Flanders, and yet I can't help but wonder what price might have been paid for this so-called diversion.

At the very least, it's only Shirley I have to worry about at the moment. And Ken, I suppose. I had letters from both, yesterday, but of course those were sent before that _diversion_ , so they mean little.

"Isn't it your half-day off?" Miss Inglish rouses me from my thoughts.

We have grown closer during the past six or seven weeks, Miss Inglish and I, or at least as close as she allows. But while the given names were a natural thing with Betty-and-Polly as well as with Colette, Miss Inglish keeps this last bit of distance. I respect it. It's probably just the way she is.

"It is," I concede. "But where to go?"

Miss Inglish accepts my point with an inclination of her head.

In Aubigny, we knew how to fill our time off. We had dances and took walks and picnicked and sometimes took some of the officers' horses out for a ride. The next town was Arras, but that's supposed to be more ruins now than living abodes, and besides, it's too close to the frontlines for a nurse. Béthune and, more so, Amiens, were quite far for a half-day, but sometimes we managed to catch a lift there and went to see a moving picture or do some shopping.

Here in Flanders, however, things are quite different. I mean, Poperinghe isn't called 'Little Paris' by the troops for nothing. There are restaurants and clubs and bars and theatres and – let's be honest here – brothels in such a quantity that the many soldiers being channeled through the town are sure to find some form of distraction. At the same time though, that makes the place off-limits to us nurses, and certainly for a lonely nurse without appropriate company.

Still, I probably wouldn't even go up to Pops if I were allowed to. I don't know it well, but the atmosphere there is… strange. It's almost as if it's too exuberant, in a feverish kind of way. I've felt uncomfortable there, to be honest.

"I came to excuse Cooper," I explain, shaking off the thought of Poperinghe. "He needs to clean up."

Miss Inglish looks at me questioningly and I confirm with a nod. She's been trying to protect him long before I ever came here. She knows all about it. Now she sighs softly and shakes her head.

"Oh, but I did have a letter from my brother," I quickly change the subjects. "He's better. He asks me to return his greetings. He remembers the tent."

The corners of her lips rise into a gentle smile. "I am glad," she says with quiet conviction. "And he'll be in England soon, won't he?"

Surprised, I look at her. "Will he? He didn't say," I reply.

Miss Inglish nods. "I had a letter from one of my old colleagues who is still with the unit. They're being transferred to England sometime next month and are to take over a hospital there. In Hastings, if I remember correctly. Perhaps Dr Blythe hasn't yet been told of this because of his illness?"

"Possible," I agree. "But he'll certainly be ecstatic to be leaving Salonica soon!" And he won't be the only one – I, too, feel relief at knowing him in save England soon, far away from ominous illnesses I don't understand.

For a moment, silence falls, then Miss Inglish raises her head. "Do you have any plans for today?" she asks. "If not, you could assist Dr Robertson with a blood transfusion. I'm slated to help, but I am busy enough as it is and it might be interesting for you."

I have started nodding long before she's finished her question. "I'd love to!" I assure, craning my neck to look out for Dr Robertson. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Miss Inglish smile benevolently.

Dr Robertson is an authority in the area of blood transfusion. We try our best with hot water bottles and blankets, with coffee and saline drops, with camphor and strychnine and atropine, but none of that has come close to being as effective as the miracle that is Dr Robertson and his transfusions. I have seen men that were basically corpses already, and just one transfusion was enough to pull them back among the living.

Not so very long ago, a transfusion was an actual operation, during which a tube had to be inserted into the vessels through an incision for the blood to flow directly from the donor to the patient. Dr Robertson has, with support from his colleagues, developed techniques that make it possible to draw the blood with a normal syringe. There's even been progress in _storing_ the blood before giving it to the patient only much later on.

I've had my eye on Dr Robertson and his transfusions for quite a while now. I really would love to learn more about it, and feel adequately grateful at the opportunity Miss Inglish is presenting me with. I know that she knows that – and I know that she has done it to cheer me up, or at least distract me. And distraction, in whatever shape it may come, is more than welcome to me, especially when it involves the opportunity to learn.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'There's a Long Long Trail A-Winding' from 1914 (lyrics by Stoddard King, music by Alonzo Elliott)._

 _Dr Robertson is Lawrence Bruce Robertson (1885-1923), a Canadian physician who had a significant role in the establishment of blood transfusion during the Great War. He served with No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station and refined his techniques in the transfusing of blood there._


	28. But remember there's a duty

_September 16_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Remy Siding near Lijssenthoek, Belgium_

 **But remember there's a duty**

With a sigh, I pull the blanket up over the dead soldier's face.

He was already in a pretty wretched state when they brought him in. The left side of his face has been obliterated. It's just a shapeless mass of flesh and blood. I'm not even sure if the eye's still there. His left hand is gone and his legs are spiked with pieces of shrapnel.

It's a miracle that he'd made it this far, even. And yet, when the tiny flutter of his pulse finally stilled beneath my fingers, the feeling came, as it always does. The feeling that overcomes me, without fail, when one of them dies. One or two seconds, when my chest feels tight and it's hard to breathe.

The feeling used to persist much longer, in the beginning. When the first patient died beneath my hands, back in Taplow, they had to send me outside and it took nearly an hour until I felt I could breathe again. Now it's mere moments, but it never fully leaves, the feeling.

I take a step back from the dead soldier's stretcher and raise my head.

It's a normal day. We had about 200 new admissions, which is pretty routine for us at the moment. The last big offensive was in the middle of August, four weeks ago now. It doesn't mean, of course, that the fighting is over – the fighting is _never_ over – but it means fewer wounded and different wounds.

During an offensive, we receive lots of wounded men in a very short amount of time. Infantry, mostly. It's the infantry soldiers that go 'over the top', rush across no man's land towards the German trenches, in the confidence that their leaders have come up with a good plan of attack, that their artillery fires with accuracy, or that their god will somehow protect them if nothing else. It's the infantry soldiers amongst whom the machine guns rage fiercest, and it's the amount of gunshot wounds that tell us when an offensive is ongoing. That, and the injuries caused by bayonets.

During the times in between two offensives, it's bombs and shells and shrapnel that lead to the most injuries. That's not actually a good thing – a bullet is nasty, but a piece of shrapnel is much nastier – but the bombs and shells are always there, during the offensive and during what they call the 'quiet' times. They're quiet only because you can usually rely on there being fewer wounds caused by guns and bayonets, so fewer wounded overall. Sure, there are always the snipers, but their victims we usually don't even get to see.

The gas victims, however, we see with a terribly regularity. It's always there, the gas, same as the shells – the old gas as well as the new. _Mustard gas_ they have christened it, the new gas, because of the smell. The Germans make liberal use of all kinds of gas. It seems as if their commanders have found a new toy to play with and even after two months, their delight in it remains undiminished.

It's horrible, and even two months of experience have not changed that. It's not even that deadly, that at least we've found out by now, and that's _good_ , but it's still nasty stuff. The pain caused by the burning of the skin seems to be nigh on unbearable and with regards to possible long-term damage… good luck to anyone trying to predict that.

I tilt my head back, listen to my surroundings for a moment. There's a soft pattering on the roof of the hut and when I hear it, I sigh.

"Don't tell me it's raining _again_?" I ask Cooper, who has quietly appeared at my elbow.

"I'm afraid it is, Ma'am," he answers regretfully.

I heave another sigh. I'm so _sick_ of the rain. The rain and the mud.

Because, as paradoxical as it might sound, the mud is the worst. That the weather would turn out to be a more relentless enemy than the enemy itself is a mad thought, and yet, our boys are fighting the mud as much as the Germans. The rain started promptly in time for that first offensive starting on the last day of July, and it hasn't let up since. August was _wet_ more than anything.

We had a tiny respite when August turned to September, but the effect is negligible. The whole area is a quagmire, and even in the past two weeks, there's been too much rain and not enough sun for it to dry up. So while the rain lessened a bit, the mud remained and besides, it's back to raining apparently, isn't it?

"Poor devils out there," a voice to my right intones. I turn my head towards a patient, swaddled tightly in a mountain of blankets. There are traces of colour in his face. He's one if those that have already come back from the dead.

"It's bad, isn't it?" I enquire cautiously and step closer to him. I'm not even sure why I'm asking. Perhaps because he's got the look of someone who wants to talk.

He grimaces spectacularly. "We live in trenches that we have dug into the earth," he remarks. "The trenches are the first thing to be filled with water when it's raining, and when you take water and dirt, you get mud in result. For six weeks now, we've been standing in mud and water up to above our knees. Rots the shoes right off you, and your feet too, if you aren't careful."

What he says doesn't surprise me. I see it in the patients we receive, who have been covered head-to-toe in mud for several weeks now, and who have found another thing to curse besides the Germans and their own commanders: the Belgian weather.

"And when we have to go over the top," the soldier adds, "We're staring down at an endless expanse of mud. No thought of getting through there. They've put planks out for us to walk on, towards the enemy, properly in rank and file. Well, the German snipers must have thought Christmas had come early." He laughs bitterly.

I make a sound that I hope to be sympathetic, and check the temperature of his water bottles with the back of my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I look at Cooper, but he's just standing there, as patiently as ever.

"And woe betide anyone who steps off the plank. The mud clings to everything it gets its claws on. Once you're stuck, there's no getting out of it. I have seen men – _good_ men – drown in the mud in full consciousness," the soldier continues grimly. His face is grave. His eyes tell me that he has been here too long.

The death he describes… it's the kind of death you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. A shiver runs down my spine and instinctively, I move my shoulders to shake it off.

"Ma'am?" Cooper politely asks.

I turn, look from Cooper to the soldier on the stretcher. "I have to go," I apologise. Before I do, I take a moment to replace two hot water bottles and pull his blanket straight, but I'm not even sure he notices. He stares darkly towards the roof, onto which the rain continues to fall.

Pushing the soldier and the mud resolutely from my thoughts, I follow Cooper to the other side of the hut. There's a screen put up there, shielding a stretcher from view, which surprises me. On a normal ward, we use these screens to separate the dying, because it makes the other patients nervous to see one of their own die. Here though, on the resuscitation ward, we have so many patients dying there's hardly any sense in putting up a screen.

When I step around it though, take one look at the boy on the stretcher, I understand.

 _Feldgrau_.

A German soldier.

That explains the screen alright.

He's not the first German soldier I've come to face with. I've been here a year now – Already a year? _Only_ a year? – and no one manages to be over here for a year without seeing a German prisoner of war. Or POW, as they call them. Still, so far, I've really only seen them from afar. I'm not sure if we had German soldiers in Taplow, but I'm fairly certain there were none in Saint Cloud. We did treat POWs in Aubigny, but we had a separate ward for them, with a sister who spoke a bit of German.

Looking over at Cooper, I raise an inquiring eyebrow.

"He's dying," he explains softly. "Over on the ward he would have died. I had them bring him here. Maybe we can do something for him."

I wonder what business Cooper had over at the POWs, but I don't ask.

Instead, I step closer to the stretcher and look at the German. He's young, no older than I am. Why is it that they're always sending the young to die? Those that haven't seen anything of life yet and will now see nothing but mud and death and suffering?

The boy is awake, I realize. His eyes flit between me and Copper. He opens his mouth, croaks out a word I don't understand. There's pain and fear written across his face.

This, then, is the enemy.

He doesn't look very hostile. He's just a scared little boy who shouldn't be here.

And yet – it's these boys, not so scared then, who direct their guns at our soldiers. Who poison them with gas and drop bombs on their heads from aeroplanes. It's unlikely, but possible, that it was this boy, now lying in front of me, who fired off the bullet that was still lodged in Jerry's forehead when they buried him.

"Ma'am?" Cooper quietly asks and I realize I've been standing here for at least half a minute, motionless, staring down at the German soldier.

I take deep breath, then reach for the army-issued blanket and pull it down a little bit. It feels wet and sticky against my fingers. A metallic smell reaches my nose. Blood.

And yes, the grey uniform of the German is caked in mud and blood. A totally insufficient bandage is wrapped around his stomach. On it, large red blotches have spread.

Cautiously, I touch the dressing and the whole thing immediately comes apart. Blood, bits of bandage and intestines spill over the stretcher and over my hands. Instinctively, I reach out, try to gather what I can.

Intestines, I've noticed, are always warm. No matter how shocked or hypothermic the patient from whose body they fell, the intestines themselves are always warm. Warm, slippery, eely _things_ that slip from your hands the moment you reach for them. When they move, they sometimes have the look of something very much alive.

A second pair of hands appears next to mine. Cooper. Together, we push the intestines back into the ripped-open abdomen, as well as we can manage. Something else I've found out: it's nearly impossible to re-fold intestines in a way to make them fit back into a body. Dr Cormer, in his inimitable way, has once likened it to trying to get toothpaste back into the tube. I still haven't decided how, well, _appropriate_ that comparison is, but there's no denying it, I guess.

Somehow, Cooper and I wind a new bandage around the German's abdomen. It's not a pretty dressing, because we'd need more hands for it to turn out pretty, and more time. It won't even be enough to stop the bleeding, but at least the intestines are not slithering about anymore.

I take a step back and survey our work. Pretty it really isn't.

The soldier murmurs something and I quickly turn my head to look at him. His face is as grey as his uniform. Only his lower lip is bleeding from where he must have bitten it. I don't understand even one word of what he says. For me, it's merely a succession of raspy, scratching sounds. Because however much Walter might rhapsodize about Goethe and Schiller, Heine and Hölderlin, no one could ever conceivably claim that the German language _sounds_ nice.

Sharply, I turn my head, as I hear Cooper answer in the same scratchy tones.

"You speak German?" I ask, incredulous. Only afterwards do I realize I'm whispering.

Cooper shrugs a little. "My grandmother was from Silesia," he replies quietly.

I have no idea where Silesia is. In Germany, presumably?

I move to ask why no one is aware of his linguistic talents, then shut my mouth abruptly. It is a stupid question. His life is hard enough here, being a Quaker. When it becomes common knowledge that he has a _boche_ for a grandmother, they'd never leave him alone.

Softly, Cooper talks to the German soldier, who answers through teeth gritted from pain. I sort some glass bottles on the supply cart, only partly listening to a conversation I could never understand anyway.

Moments later, Cooper turns back to me. "His name is Josef. He would like to thank us for helping him," he relays.

"And he doesn't happen to be from Silesia by any chance?" I enquire, raising both eyebrows. My voice, I'm afraid, sounds decidedly contemptuous. I don't want to be mean to Cooper, but there's something within me, a certain reluctance, because it was me he chose to treat the German soldier and not someone else. It is, as they say, a moral dilemma, and not one I'm all that keen to solve.

Cooper turns his head to the side.

"Can we help him?" he asks in lieu of giving an actual answer.

I sigh. "I can give him some morphine against the pain and atropine might help steady the heartbeat. How much good it can do when he's still bleeding so badly, I don't know," I reply slowly. The new dressing has been bleed through already.

"What would do him good then?" Cooper wants to know.

At first, I don't answer. Instead, I reach for another roll of bandage, wrap it around the dressing we only just renewed. I pull it as tightly as I can, to maybe slow the bleeding down even a little bit. He might be a German, and I'm still not entirely sure how _right_ it is for us to help him, but it goes against my honour to have him die on my watch.

Without uttering a word, Cooper reaches out to help me with the bandage. Only then does his expectant gaze fix on my face.

"What he needs," I explain, while I prepare a morphine injection, "Is a blood transfusion and an operation. He will get neither, or at least not until it is probably too late."

I position the syringe, inject the morphine. The German makes no sound, only his eyes widen for a moment. It will help with the pain at least, because I have no idea if anyone can be found who is willing and able to help him.

We don't let a prisoner die if we can help it. Not we in this CCS, nor, I hope, the troops at the front. But our resources are scarce, the wounded numerous and this boy here is one of the enemy. And there's a difference to 'not letting someone die if you can help it' and 'saving their life at all costs'.

My eyes meet Cooper's and for the first time since I met him, I see something rebellious in their depths. Because of course, Cooper would never differentiate between two humans needing help, would he? For him, it doesn't matter what colour uniform a man wears. But Cooper is a saint and who else can claim that of themselves?

"Alright, look, I'll have him put on the operation list," I remark, a little impatiently. "But you have to understand that they'll only operate on him when all others have been treated. Those are the rules of the game."

The German will get help only when all Imperial and ANZAC patients have been taken care of. Maybe he'll even be alive then still, but even if they operate on him, there's no guarantee that he'll survive. Abdominal wounds nearly always get infected, even more so what with all the _mud_ sticking to everything and everyone. And you can't amputate a stomach.

A beat before Cooper nods. But there's no understanding in his eyes. I suppose he's expected more from me, but what's there to do? And do I even _want_ to do anything? It's one thing to treat a German soldier, but it's quite another to try and get one of the surgical teams to operate on him, quite possibly instead of a English soldier who's in need of an operation as badly.

It might not be very saintly of me, but faced with the decision of who gets to live, I wouldn't choose the German.

My mind flashes back to the memory of the Nellie Spindler, and English nursing sister they buried here last month. She was killed by a German shell. She was twenty-six.

No, I _won't_ choose the German.

Cooper has started to place hot water bottles around the German soldier. I watch him do it for a moment, then shake my head and reach for the boy's arm. He stiffens, but doesn't resist. His pulse, as expected, is weak and unsteady, and no wonder considering his extensive blood loss.

I prepare another syringe, fill it with atropine this time. It's not easy to administer, atropine. Give them too little and it slows down their heartbeat even more. Given them too much and it poisons them – followed by convulsions, respiratory distress, exitus. But I have quite a bit of experience in the administration of atropine by now and prefer it over camphor or strychnine. I guess everyone has their own preferences when it comes to that.

Strictly speaking, nursing sisters are not allowed to give out medicine, at least not without having the go-ahead of a doctor. But much of what was unquestioned before 1914 has become muddied now. If we were to go and find a doctor for every single injection, no one would ever get anything done, and we're much too busy as it is.

I inject the atropine, then turn back towards Cooper. "We've done all we can for now," I remind him. "If he remains halfway stable, I'll make sure he gets operated on. When that may be, I can't say. Keep an eye on him until then, will you?"

Cooper nods. "I will, Ma'am." A moment of hesitation, before he adds, "And thank you."

I dismiss his thanks with a shake of the head. Instead, I take one last look at the German. His gaze meets mine. His eyes are a light brown. I wonder if he will survive.

I wonder if I will mind if he doesn't.

It's not a very honourable thing to be feeling, but when I step around the screen, I am relieved to leave Cooper and the German. It was my duty to help him and I suppose I could never _not_ have helped him. But despite his youthful face, despite his light brown eyes, he's one of the enemy. And unlike Cooper, I can't seem to forget that.

I let my gaze survey the ward and it lands on the stretcher of the soldier I failed to save earlier. Miss Inglish is next to him, bend forward a little, intently contemplating the body beneath the blanket. As she rights herself, she notices me and waves me over.

Frowning I cross the hut to stand next to her.

"You took care of him, didn't you?" she asks, not taking her eyes from the dead man. He's still covered by the blanket.

I nod. "There wasn't much to be done. He was badly wounded and eventually, there was no pulse anymore." I wonder what's the matter.

Miss Inglish makes a thoughtful sound, still looking down at the body with utmost concentration. I follow her gaze, but can detect nothing untoward, just that grey, scratchy army blanket.

Then – "Did you see that?" Miss Inglish demands to know. "There! Look closely."

At first I shake my head, but when she gives me a sharp nudge, I bend closer towards the dead soldier, narrow my eyes. And then, suddenly, I see it as well. _The blanket is stirring_. It's rising and falling, almost imperceptibly, but once seen, it cannot be missed.

The dead man is breathing. The dead man _is not dead_.

Miss Inglish pulls the blanket down. The man's face is immobile, his eyes closed, but his chest is moving very slightly, up and down. Hurriedly, Miss Inglish searches for a pulse at his neck. She closes her eyes, stands still for a moment, then she looks at me and nods.

And now I'm the one who can't breathe. There's a weight around my chest, steely, suffocating. "I don't understand…" I stammer, "He was dead. There was no pulse. He… I…" I break off, fight for breath.

Gently, Miss Inglish touches my arm. "Sometimes, they appear dead but aren't. You can't find a pulse and can't see them breathing, but somehow, they're still alive," she explains quietly. "I have no doubt that you thought him dead."

I don't react. I can't move. She nudges me softly and I shake my head, an automatic movement. My gaze is fixed on the soldier who isn't dead. "What if… what if…?" I try and fail to ask.

What if he isn't the first one who wasn't dead? I want to ask and yet don't want to know at all.

"It's rare. Those that appear dead usually are dead as well", Miss Inglish answers the questions I cannot bring myself to say out loud. "I've only seen it twice before in all my years of working as a nurse. I don't think it's happened to you before. And nothing did happen now either, did it?"

She's trying to comfort me, which is nice. But the only reason why nothing happened is because she was more observant than me. Her kind words won't change that. I made the mistake. A mistake with possible consequences that rise before my eyes in snatches.

If Miss Inglish had not noticed him, they would have taken the man away, over to the cemetery, to be buried. _Despite him not being dead_. And then, maybe, he would have regained consciousness, wrapped in a shroud, buried under dark, wet soil. Without a chance to alert anyone, or any possibility of ever leaving his early grave. They would have _buried him alive_.

All because _I_ have made a mistake.

I only just make it outside before I am sick.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Your King and Country want you' from 1914 (lyrics and music by Paul Rubens)._

 _Nellie Spindler is Staff Nurse Nellie Spindler (1891-1917), an English nurse with the QAIMNS. She was transferred to No. 44 CCS in Brandhoek near Ypres in the summer of 1917. On August 21_ _st_ _, the CCS was bombed and Nellie Spindler was mortally wounded. She is buried in Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery near Poperinghe, the only woman to have her grave there._


	29. There's a murmur in the air

_October 23_ _rd_ _, 1917  
No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Remy Siding near Lijssenthoek, Belgium_

 **There's a murmur in the air**

"You have a steady hand," Dr Connelly remarks quietly.

I make a sound to indicate I have heard him, but don't move my gaze from my work. With narrowed eyes and utmost concentration I survey the patient's shoulder, in which I am fishing around for shrapnel pieces with a small pair of forceps. I almost get hold of one, before it slips from the forceps again.

Frustrated, I purse my lips.

"If you can't reach it either, we can simply wait another few days," Dr Connelly suggests. He's standing on the other side of the operating table and his gaze never leaves my hands.

"Let me try once more, please" I ask. "It would be a bother to have to wait even longer because of one tiny piece."

Dr Connelly nods, so I bend down over the patient's shoulder again. The tip of my tongue slips between my teeth in concentration, just as it did when I was an impressionable eight-year-old, sitting on a hard wooden bank in our little village school and fighting with numbers and letters that refused to do what I wanted them to.

I can only just spy the tip of the metal piece. If I fail to get it once again, it will slip too far into the body and we have to wait for it to come back up again.

It's work that requires a lot of patience, the removal of grenade and shrapnel pieces. Not only because it requires concentration and a sharp eye, but because you need time. During the first operation, you take out the big pieces and those close to the surface. Then you have to wait. Normally, the patient's body helps in that it works the deeper-lying pieces slowly upwards. Once that has happened, you fish them out. More often than not, the cycle has to be repeated four or five times, stretching out over several days, during which the wound can't be closed but has to be kept clean. The danger of an infection always looms large.

The patient on the table before me is already on his fourth operation. According to the x-rays though, we have caught almost all pieces. What was missing before today now lies on a metal tray next to Dr Turner, the assistant surgeon. There's only that one tiny, stubborn piece left.

Very cautiously, I push the forceps deeper into the wound. Closing me right eye, I slowly move the forceps until they hover over the just visible metal piece. I hold my breath and –

This time, I succeed.

With some triumph I raise the forceps, holding the piece of shrapnel.

Dr Connelly smiles. "Good job. I wouldn't have caught the little devil."

With a soft _ping_ the metal piece drops onto the tray.

"That's just because you were never forced to tat lace," I inform him.

"Lace?" he repeats and is look is one of such confusion that I have to laugh.

"There's no work requiring more patience and a calmer hand than the tatting of lace," I explain. "Which is why women are actually often better when it comes to fine work. I'd never dream of doubting your talents as a surgeon, but I do postulate that there's no better training for an operation than years of needlework."

An amused smile spreads over Dr Connelly's face. He often smiles. He's maybe the most content person I've ever met and he's managed to preserve this even in this place. And I have to say, it feels good to work with someone who takes a positive approach to matters, even though I have to agree with Miss Inglish in that we don't envy Mrs Connelly – surely it must drive a woman clean mad to have a husband who's _always_ in a good mood.

In contrast, Dr Turner, currently standing at the head end of the operating table next to the anaesthetist, might just be the most taciturn man I know (and yes, that includes Shirley). How he and Dr Connelly can make a successful team I've yet to figure out, but somehow, they do.

"That was the last piece, wasn't it?" I ask, silently counting the metal pieces on the tray.

Dr Connelly turns to peruse the x-ray with a critical eye. X-rays are ever so helpful. They enable us to be absolutely certain about how many bits of metal there are in a body and to catch every last one of them before we close the wound. For when we miss even one, an infection is all but inevitable.

"Looks good," Dr Connelly confirms, turning back to face us. "But we'll leave him open a bit longer, just to be sure. I'd say we close the wound properly in a day or two and send him onwards then. We've been ordered to free up beds anyway."

I take note of his remark and feel tiredness more so than dread. The order to evacuate patients and free up beds is a reliable precursor for a coming offensive. Ever since I've come here, the order has been given every few weeks, as if on clockwork. The last offensive began in late September and brought gains along the Menin Road and the Polygon Wood. The casualties, though, were horrible. We didn't sleep for days. And the somewhat drier spell of weather was over by October, and further attacks on Poelkappelle and Passchendaele got bogged down in mud. Literally.

All this I already experienced in the operating theatre. I've been here for a good four weeks now and to this day, I have no idea how my transfer from the resus ward came to be or who gave the order for it. I don't even know whether it was just a routine transfer or whether Not-Dead had anything to do with it. I never asked, to be honest. I was just so, _so_ relieved to leave the resus ward that it really didn't matter.

Truth be told, I was probably quite useless during the days after the incident with Not-Dead. I was so terribly afraid of making another mistake that poor, patient Miss Inglish had to sign off on everything I did. Possibly, it was she who made sure I was given a different task. I'm not even angry. Here in the operating theatre, I can at least be sure that there's a surgeon overseeing my work at any time.

He survived, by the way. Not-Dead, I mean. I think he clung to life with such a stubbornness that death simply failed in collecting him. Or else his guardian angel – Miss Inglish? – refused to let him go. In any case, he was still alive when we put him in a train to the coast. His fate now lies in different hands.

The German boy, on the other hand, died. They did operate on him in the end, but the inevitable infection set in and carried him off in a day or two. When Cooper told me, I realised that I felt sorry. And that, in turn, made me feel relieved – maybe I've not grown to be as heartless as I sometimes fear.

"Is there another operation today?" I enquire of Dr Connelly while we work to dress the patient's wound.

Thankfully, he shakes his head. "No, that was it for today. Word is that many of the new arrivals were gas cases," he explains.

I nod. There's usually little we can do for the gas cases here in our theatre. They aren't classified as medical cases for nothing. For us, their arrival means that the day's work is done. Although – what's a _day_ , really? The first transport arrived in the evening and they kept coming, throughout the whole night and well into the morning. It's probably past noon by now and I don't even want to think about how long I've been on my feet.

My attempt to stifle a yawn is probably doomed to fail from the start then. Dr Connelly notices and gives me a sympathetic look. "You should go and get some sleep. I'll find someone else to tidy up here," he assures.

For no longer than a second I consider objecting, but then give in quite willingly. My arms feel as though made of lead, and I stopped feeling my feet a good while ago. I should probably _really_ get some sleep.

And so I relinquish the untidy operating theatre to whomever, and shuffle outside, where the mud forces me to raise my feet again, much to my irritation. Yawning quite shamelessly, I turn towards the Armstrong huts where we sisters are housed. I've almost reached them and am just absentmindedly contemplating the fact that they've started piling up sandbags here as well now, when a voice calls out something behind me.

My mind feels sluggish, as if have used up my very last bit of concentration on that piece of shrapnel, and it takes a second or two for me to recognise the _something_ as my name. A further three seconds are required until I have derived a proper course of action from this bit of information and I turn around.

The very first thing I see is a tall, chestnut horse that regards me unkindly. Only then do I notice the figure standing beside it.

My tiredness is wiped away in an instant. Instinctively, I stand up straighter.

"Kenneth!" I exclaim in surprise.

Ken takes a step towards me and clicks his tongue at the mare in an attempt to get her to follow, but she doesn't move a muscle. She merely flicks an ear back in irritation. So it falls to me to cross over the few meters of ground and bypass a sizeable puddle separating us.

It gives me a moment to look at him. He looks as tired as I feel. Thinner, and not properly shaven. Apparently, I'm not the only one who's been through a hard time recently. But then, I haven't seen him in quite a while, have I?

My gaze falls on his shoulder straps. Strictly speaking, officers are to wear their rank on the cuffs, but they say it makes it far too easy for snipers to pick them out in the trenches. Many officers, Ken among them, have therefore chosen to wear their rank on their shoulder straps instead. The three stars, which had been on display when I last saw him, have been replaced by a single crown. I dimly remember him mentioning in one if his letter that he was promoted to major back in May, but it's the first time I've seen him with the new insignia. It's been almost half a year then.

And letters are just not the same. We've been swapping them every one or two weeks over the last few months. Those were practical letters, very matter-of-fact, filled with reports of our respective work. The kind of letters where you have to read between the lines to find out how the other one is faring, and even then don't always succeed.

"What are you doing here? When did you arrive?" I ask once I am standing opposite him. Without thinking I stretch out a hand to stroke the horse's nose. Moment later, I pull it back quickly as the horse ears move to press against the head in warning.

So this is Nellie, then.

Ken give a sharp tug at the reins but only succeeds in getting her to snatch at his arm. He gently shakes his head at her, quite benevolently, before turning back to me.

"I came _here_ half an hour ago maybe. We've been in the general area since yesterday. We're posted a little behind the French border," he informs me.

Which explains the horse's bad mood, if nothing else. We're several miles from the French border. If he rode the entire distance, it can't have taken him less than two hours.

I do wonder what he's doing here? Instead of asking though, I merely remark, "They've been moving lots of Canadian units to Flanders recently." It caused quite the excitement in the CCS.

"They're concentrating us in the area," Ken confirms with a nod.

I frown. I don't like this. If they are bringing in the Canadians and ordering us to free up beds, the conclusion is easily drawn.

"We've made the mistake of making a bit of a name for us as an effective shock troop in the past," Ken continues. "And now it's up to us to try our hand at the next offensive."

"Tell your boys not to underestimate the mud. The mud is hell," I reply. It's the first thing coming to my mind.

Ken pulls a face, half wry smile, half grimace. "Ah yes, I was able to get an idea of it on my ride here. It's far worse up front, I gather?" He raises an eyebrow.

"The patients say that men have drowned in it already. It's like a proper swamp. And trench foot is rife," I tell him. Then, following a new train of thoughts, "And mustard gas. Tell them that as well. Nasty stuff."

"Indeed. We've had that pleasure already," Ken remarks drily. "I'll tell them, alright?"

I nod. I'm just considering asking what he wants – he wouldn't have made the two-hour ride solely to talk about _mud_ – when he thoughtfully notes, "Shirley should be around already, by the way. They moved the third and fourth division before us. Does he know how to find you?"

Now I'm the one grimacing. "He was here before, in August." Then, after a moment of hesitation, "He told me… about Jerry."

Ken nods slowly. "Poor devil," he replies and now it's him hesitating before he adds, "did he tell you that – "

"Yes, he did," I quickly interject before he can finish his sentence. As much as I value his honesty, I really don't want to hear it out loud even once more.

Thankfully, Ken seems to understand. "Poor devil," he sighs, shaking his head.

Then he falls silent and I am grateful. Possibly, there will come the day when we're going to have to talk about all his, but just now, talking seems so much harder than remaining silent and forgetting. And besides, nothing we do could ever bring Jerry back.

A private leads a pack horse past us with a few meters of distance and Nellie prances excitedly and raises a hind leg in warning. I catch Ken's eye and we share a little smile. That horse lives up to her reputation as a diva.

"Jem's finally in England now," I then change the subject. "Did he write to you?"

Ken laughs softly. "He did. And he was ecstatic to finally be allowed to leave Greece."

"Two years can be a long time," I point out with a shrug. "But the main thing is that he's back in a place where pneumonia is more likely than malaria."

"Is he fully recovered then?" Ken enquires. "I mean, he swore on his mother and his children that everything's quite splendid, but we know Jem, don't we?"

Indeed. We do know Jem.

"Walter is stationed not far from him and has been to see him. According to his letter, Jem's still quite a bit thinner than he used to be, but outrageously tanned and in the very best of moods," I report. Quietly, I wonder, not for the first time, if Jem might not be _too_ cheerful. Jerry was his best friend, after all. But I suppose we all cope in our own ways.

Ken nods, but he appears distracted all of a sudden. "Speaking of English hospitals," he says slowly. "I actually came here to ask a favour of you."

Aha! Finally we're getting closer to the heart of this matter. "Must be a big favour, if you're willing to ride for hours just to ask it," I point out, eyeing him curiously.

I keep my voice light, almost teasing, but he remains serious. "Not a big favour, no, but it is important to me," he answers, frowning.

"Let's hear it then," I prompt, trying for an encouraging smile that he does not react to.

"I wanted to ask you to write to Persis," Ken explains. His tone is formal, but there's an urgency evident in his eyes.

An incredulous little laugh escapes me. _That_ 's the important favour?

"Sure, I can do that," I assure. "We don't usually write to one another, but I don't see why I shouldn't."

Ken nods, falling silent. Frowning deeply, he looks down at the reins in his hands. Nellie shakes her head impatiently.

I allow three or four seconds to pass, before I ask, "Err… do you want to tell me _why_ you want me to write to Persis?" I tilt my head to the side, trying to catch his eyes. My smile turns out a little more uncertain than I'd like.

Ken abruptly raises his head, almost as if he's forgotten all about me for a moment there. "Of course. Please forgive me," he apologises quickly. "It would be nice if you could convince her not to come to Europe."

Huh? That explains just about nothing.

"And… why would she be coming to Europe?" I cautiously ask.

Ken sighs.

"Didn't I tell you in one of my letters?" he asks, only to answer his own question, "No, I suppose not. I didn't seem important at the time."

Once again though, he makes no move to actually offer up the required information. His gaze, sombre now, turns inwards, and by now, Nellie isn't the only one starting to get a little impatient with him.

Taking a deep breath, I gently suggest, "Do you want to tell me now?"

Ken looks up at me and for a moment, he appears almost surprised. Then he shakes his head slightly, rubs his face with both hands. "I'm sorry. I'm just… I suppose I really need to get some sleep."

I raise both eyebrows. "Then you've come to entirely the wrong place," I inform him cheerfully. "It's always loud in the east and those airplanes like nothing more than to buzz around above our heads and drop bombs, especially at night. So if the dulcet tones of explosions are not conducive to your sleep by any chance, proper sleep has just receded into the very far-off distance."

A tired smile appears on his face. "What if I told you that during my last leave, I actually had trouble sleeping because it was so bloody quiet?" he wants to know and raises an eyebrow.

I blink, astounded. I have no idea what to say.

"Well, then you're lucky, I guess," I reply finally, though it doesn't sound right. "But didn't you want to tell me about Persis?"

The smile, weak as it was in the first place, disappears. "Persis and Selina are members of the Imperial Order Daughters of the Empire. They've been volunteering ever since the war began, advertising war bonds, collecting donations, stuff like that. But it was easily foreseeable that Persis especially would grow bored of that with time," he explains.

I give a shrug. I've never been particularly close to Persis but I have no trouble imagining that charity appeals would never be able to hold her attention for very long.

"Selina's father is acquainted with Dr Bruce, the founder of Wellesley hospital, a private hospital in Toronto," Ken continues. "Persis and Selina used to visit patients there even before the war, to hold their hands and read to them and whatever else you do when visiting people in hospital. When the first war casualties were brought home, they eagerly extended their efforts to include Toronto's various military hospitals."

I nod. I've heard of Dr Bruce before. He's some brass hat or another with the CAMC.

"At some point, they had the bright idea to take some First Aid courses offered by the St. John's Ambulance services," Ken adds. "They acquired a bunch of certificates –"

" _First Aid Certificate_ and _Home Nursing Certificate_ ," I interject. I have a pretty good idea of where this is going to lead all of a sudden.

Ken nods. "Yes, those. We didn't think much of it at first. Persis has been somewhat adrift ever since graduating in 1914, and when I went away, Selina was reduced to spending her time waiting. We – that is, my parents, Selina's parents and I – agreed that there was no harm in them having something to do by taking the courses."

He frowns, hesitates for seconds. "Only, Persis used those certificates to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment. She's been working at the Spadina Military Hospital in Toronto since the beginning of summer."

And even if I hadn't had an inkling before, now I have no doubt what this is about.

"Yes. And now Persis has made up her mind to come to Europe to work in a hospital here," Ken confirms, pursing his lips.

"The CAMC doesn't send VADs to Europe," I point out.

Ken raises his shoulders in a half-shrug. "Which is why Persis wants to organise her own crossing and join the English branch."

I take a deep breath, then nod. "And now you want me to…?" I let the question hang in the air. I'm still not quite sure what my role in all of this is.

"To write to her and convince her to stay in Canada," he answers immediately. "Just write to her and tell her how horrible it is here and how terrible the work and that you regret ever coming. Something to that effect. You'll think of something."

I look at him, frowning. "That wouldn't be truthful, though," I demure.

For yes, the work is hard, as are the conditions here, and the suffering I see is sometimes more than I think I can bear. And yes, there are days when I wish I hadn't come (Not-Dead was such a day), but… I never truly _regret_ it.

Impatiently, Ken brushes my objection aside. "It doesn't matter if it's true or not," he informs me. "You're just supposed to write something to stop her from coming here. It's more authentic, coming from you."

Slowly, I let go of the breath I have been holding. My gaze moves over to Nellie, who is nervously flaring her nostrils, primarily so I don't have to look at Ken.

"Look, Persis isn't like you," he continues. "You're a real nurse. Persis has studied _music_ , for heaven's sake! She's never worked a day in her life. She knows nothing about pain and suffering. You're strong enough to do the work you do, but Persis – she's not so strong as to withstand all this."

It sounds so very logical, the way he says it. His voice is persuasive, the words are convincing, and I would agree, only…

"I can't lie to her," I exclaim. I turn my head, look up at him imploringly, willing him to understand.

"I'll write to her," I add quickly as he doesn't respond, "But it has to be the truth. I don't regret coming here and I can't pretend that I do. But maybe if I describe the conditions here truthfully? Maybe that's enough to convince her to stay home?"

I search his face, hopefully, but it remains impassive.

"So you're saying," he says after a beat, "that you are unwilling to fulfil my request?"

Part of me just wants to _do_ it, honesty be damned. But I can't lie to anyone when so much is at stake. Not even for him.

"I can't," I whisper, still hoping he'll somehow understand.

He doesn't.

Quietly, _helplessly_ , I watch as he turns away without another word, puts his left foot in the stirrup and mounts a nervously prancing Nellie, before steering her towards the gate.

He doesn't look back even once.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Goodbye, Dolly Gray' from the 19_ _th_ _century (lyrics by Will D. Cobb, music by Paul Barnes)._

 _Dr Bruce is Dr Herbert Alexander Bruce (1868-1963), a Canadian doctor and surgeon. In 1911, he founded the Wellesely Hospital in Toronto, and in 1916 was appointed inspector-general and surgical advisor to the CAMC. He served as 15_ _th_ _Lieutenant Governor of Ontorio from 1932 to 1937._


	30. Far from Wipers I long to be

_November 6_ _th_ _, 1917  
No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Remy Siding near Lijssenthoek, Belgium_

 **Far from Wipers I long to be**

 _Ritsch ratsch_ , goes the saw. _Ritsch ratsch_.

 _Ritschratschritschratschritschratschritschratschritschratschritschratsch_.

If there is a more horrible sound in this world, I have yet to hear it.

 _Ritsch ratsch_.

The sound itself is unpleasant enough to make a shiver run down my spine. The _significance_ of the sound is much worse.

 _Ritsch ra_ –.

Suddenly, it stops.

I turn my head, very slowly, to look at Dr Connelly.

"Stuck," he murmurs in explanation, while he considers the leg in front of him, a deep frown buried between his eyebrows. When I force myself to look as well, I see the saw embedded in the femur. Stuck, as it were.

Unable to look away, I watch as Dr Turner places a hand on either side of the saw, holding the leg down. Dr Connelly takes the handle of the saw and pulls at it.

With a scratching sound, the saw comes free.

Dr Connelly inspects the partly cut bone for a moment. Then he applies the saw once more, at a slightly different angle. When he starts sawing again, his movements are slower. He has to prevent the bones from splintering.

 _Ritsch. Ratsch. Ritsch. Ratsch. Rit_ –

Once more, it stops suddenly. Reluctantly, I raise my head again. This time though, thankfully, it's stopped because it's over.

The bone is cut. The _leg_ isn't yet of course, not wholly, but a scalpel taken to muscle and flesh doesn't make any scratching noises.

Gently, I lay a hand against the patient's cheek. He's sleeping deeply. At least he'll never know about the bone saw that got stuck in his femur on a grey day in November.

"Alright?" Dr Connelly asks, looking over to where I am standing.

"Alright," I confirm. "He's alright." Which isn't entirely true, seeing as he's currently having his leg cut off, but when I take the word only to mean that the anaesthesia is going well, he's quite alright indeed.

I shouldn't be doing this, monitoring an anaesthetized patient. But we're operating without breaks, and as usual, there aren't enough anaesthetists. After one of them learned that good Dr Thomas taught me a bit about it, they started to sometimes leave the already anaesthetized patients in my care. Rumour has it that there are nursing sisters out there who are trained anaesthetists themselves, but I don't think I'd trust myself to do it. I just keep an eye on the patient during the operation when the real anaesthetist is busy at another operating table. I can take pulse, breathing, and blood pressure in my sleep. And if one of those isn't right, I have two doctors standing right next to me.

What makes it somewhat inconvenient is that this special task leaves me with time and opportunity to _listen_. It's the sound of it, much more than the sight, that gets to me, I've found. And, whenever an operation finds me standing periodically at the top of the table, it's the sound of sawing that is worst of all.

At night, when it's quiet just for a change – when the front is silent, no bombs are falling, and the air raid sirens don't ring – I have the sound of the saw in my head. _Ritsch ratsch._ Again and again and again. _Ritsch ratsch. Ritsch ratsch. Ritsch ratsch._

It's one of the reasons why, every evening, I try to push back the night a little bit further.

At least I don't dream. I used to dream a lot, back when I was a child and later as well. Even when I first came to Europe, I had dreams still, both the good and the bad kind. One day though – and I can't quite put my finger on when it was – the dreams stopped. I haven't had a dream in weeks. Maybe it's due to exhaustion. Maybe it's an unconscious ( **a subconscious?)** attempt to protect myself.

It's not sleep that I fear. It's those moments when sleep won't come, and there's sawing in my head.

Ever since it's Canadian uniforms we're cutting off of the bodies of our patients, it's grown worse. Not that I didn't pity the Imperials or the Anzacs, but with them, I could always be sure not to know the man currently having his arm or leg bitten off by the bone saw. Now, I always have to take a look at their faces first, and it's something I increasingly dread.

So far, I haven't seen anyone I know, neither here nor anywhere else. Shirley promised to come, should he manage to get a few hours of free time, but no luck so far. His unit is busy laying out bath mats near Ypres. 'Bath mats', naturally, bear no relations to actual baths. It's army speak for the wooden planks they lay out all over the swamp that is the immediate frontline, so that the soldiers won't drown in it. It's one of those quasi-humoristic army terms that make the laughter stick in one's throat.

I therefore haven't seen Shirley since August, when it once more fell to him to bring me bad news. And I haven't had so much as a word from Kenneth, ever since he rode off two weeks ago, chillingly cold in his anger.

But I'd rather not see any of them for months than to find myself cutting off a Canadian uniform one day, only to look up and see a face I don't want to see. Not like this, anyway. It's easier to care for the nameless, even more so when they are being mutilated with no hope of ever being whole again, for as long as they live.

For this, by the way, the mud is to blame, more so than the Germans. Because mud is dirty, and it's dirt causing infections or gas gangrene, and it's those that force us to amputate. The Germans might be responsible for the wound, but the rest of it is down to the mud. They depend on one another, the mud and the saw.

This, at least, remains an easy operation, no complications to speak of. When the anaesthetist returns from the operating table next to ours, where he was busy putting another patient to sleep, he takes over caring for our patients again, leaving me free to assist the two surgeons while they wrap up the operation. Once the leg has come off and everything has been sutured and dressed, we hand over the patient to the post-op ward for further treatment.

I hurry to tidy up a little around the operating table. I collect the used instruments and hand them over to our surgical orderly so he can take them next door to be sterilized. All around me, the operations continue undisturbed. There's never just one operating table per theatre, and nowhere is that more true than in a CCS. There are several tables, sometimes separated by makeshift barriers of screens or curtains. Here in No. 2 CCS, we at least have the advantage of having two operating theatres, so we don't step on one another's toes quite so much.

I'm just putting a new cover on the operating table, when Dr Connelly, who left the theatre with Dr Turner earlier, returns to stand next to me. He holds a cup of tea in each hand and has a small package tucked under his arm.

"Let's take a break," he suggests.

For a moment, I just stand there, blinking. "A break," I parrot.

He laughs softly. "Yes, a break. A break is when one stops working for a while between two tasks. You might be familiar with the concept from the distant past?"

I give a shrug in answer, before looking down at the operating table. "I'm not finished yet," I point out.

"The most important thing is for both of us to eat something before we continue," Dr Connelly counters. "There's no telling when we will be finished today and I don't even want to ask when you last ate."

Well, he's hit a soft spot there.

We are fed army rations and those aren't too bad, whereby 'not too bad' shall not be understood to mean 'of culinary worth', however. The food is boring and it is simple, but there's usually enough of it and it's nourishing – and often, it contains meat. In a world where most people have to wrestle their daily bread from the rules of rationing, that truly is _not too bad_.

In my mouth though, food of any kind has been turning to a sticky, insipid mush for a while now. The kind of mush that clings to the roof of one's mouth and sits heavy in the stomach. My interest in eating has therefore been lacking in recent times – and it shows. I've never had a robust build in the first place, but recently I'm almost glad at having no mirror out here. I haven't been this thin since I was fifteen. I'm perfectly aware of it and yet, whenever somebody presents me with food, I feel almost sick at the thought.

But I suppose Dr Connelly does have a point. I'm of no use to anyone if I just collapse from hunger and exhaustion one day. And this day _will_ be long – one of those when we are in the operating theatre for seventeen or eighteen hours straight, operating on one patient after the other, until it becomes a complete blur.

"Alright," I concede, "But just because our next patient is still next door, getting his x-rays done."

I reach for one of the tea cups. Absentmindedly, I take note of my shaking hands. Exhaustion, probably. Not that I'd ever admit it, but I am completely drained. Sometimes my knees feel as if they won't carry my weight for another second. And there's a dull ache, somewhere behind my left temple, that has become a constant in recent days.

Dr Connelly smiles sadly. "Yes, there's always the next patient, isn't there? More so, as we're expecting more transports this afternoon."

Which reminds me… "Any news on the offensive yet?" I ask.

"Successful, from what I heard. The news only just reached us. Passchendaele has been taken," he replies, in a matter-of-fact way. There's nothing triumphal in his voice.

I nod, slowly. "Finally," I murmur, more to myself then to him. Passchendaele, this tiny village somewhere to the east of Ypres, had proved elusive for a very long time. The English and the Australians failed to take it and so they brought in the Canadians, because they have made a name for themselves in the past – 'shock troops' Ken called them, didn't he?

But even the Canadian 'shock troops' needed three attempts to take the village. Though… village? In all likelihood, there's not one stone upon another anymore, after three attacks. Two of these were at the end of October and from what I gathered, they weren't unsuccessful, but the last push was still missing. Hence today's attack.

It's the sixth of November. It began on the last day of July. Three months and hundreds of thousands of casualties. For a few metres of swamp.

I swallow. There's a bitter taste in my mouth.

Dr Connelly, meanwhile, has produced two sandwiches from his package. He gazes down at them thoughtfully for a moment, before looking up at me and handing me one. "It'll be a long day either way," he points out.

Once more, I nod. For us here in this CCS, it doesn't make much of a difference whether an offensive is a success or not. The number of wounded is the same, as are the wounds. We always have a lot to do during an offensive. Ever more food for the bone saw.

Quietly we both chew on our sandwiches. I can't tell what's on mine. Logically, I know that it must taste of _something_ , but to me, it might as well be devoid of any taste.

All around us, the operations continue still, but one gets used to that. It might be surprising that we can eat at all in this place, where bodies are cut open and legs are cut off, where muddy pieces of uniform mix with bandages drenched in blood and pus, where the smell is a near abomination, but… well, you get used to almost anything. Or maybe it's just that you stop caring.

We make quick work of our sandwiches. Right now, we have a moment to catch our breaths, but the coming transports will bring new patients who will to be operated on. We have but a few minutes for our break and even those we only get because we will likely be up on our feet well into the night.

I take another bite, driven by duty more than anything else. I'm vaguely aware of the sounds of the operations going on around me. I chew the sticky mush of sandwich in my mouth. Then, without warning, there's the sound of a bone saw behind me.

 _Ritsch ratsch._

I feel my body tense up. There's a weight around my chest, making it hard to breath.

"Are you feeling well?" Dr Connelly asks. As I look at him, I can see his concern.

I nod, turn away, brush of his question with an abrupt movement of my hand, despite not feeling well at all.

It's this _place_. Not so much the operating theatre, not even the CCS, it's the whole of Flanders that is cursed. The soldiers call it hell. Maybe it is, a hell on earth. A hell made up of mud and blood. They drown in both.

Sometimes, I imagine it: a soldier, one wrong step, the mud pulling him deeper, for hours, maybe days. Deeper, deeper, no respite. Until finally, the mud rises up to the mouth, the nose, the eyes. Then darkness and death.

Yes, it _is_ this place.

Ever since I came here, bad things have happened. There was Jem's illness, Jerry's death, the fighting of July and August. That was horrible enough. In truth, it was _too_ horrible. And yet, it was only afterwards that the spiral started spinning ever faster. Not-Dead… Not-Dead marked the turning point, after which everything went downhill. The September offensive, nominally successful, but ringing in some of the bloodiest, most terrible days we've had at the CCS. For days on end, we hardly slept and still they died, and died, and _died_. October then, now November. We might hold Passchendaele now, but at what price? For which _purpose_?

I take a shuddering breath. Even the air is poisoned here. And not even by gas but by something else, something you can neither taste nor smell and that doesn't kill you, at least not initially. It's a weight, dark and heavy, that settles over everything. The absence of hope.

"How long have you been here?" Dr Connelly suddenly asks, tearing me away from my sombre trail of thought. He sounds pensive, his gaze has settled on me.

I try to collect myself, try to shake off the dark thoughts, even take another dutiful bite from my sandwich.

"Almost five months now. Before that, I was with No. 1 CSS ( **CCS?)** for three months," I answer, surprising even myself. I didn't think it had been this long already. Somehow, I have lost my sense of time since coming here. Because here, we don't measure time in days and hours but in the number of patients and offensives.

"Quite a long time already," Dr Connelly remarks. "It will probably take some adjustment once you're back in a real hospital."

Abruptly, I look up at him. The sandwich is momentarily forgotten. "What's that supposed to mean?" I want to know.

Dr Connelly raises both hands in apology. "Didn't the matron talk to you about that?"

I mutely shake my head. At the same time though, I can already guess where this is heading.

"In that case, please accept my apologies for mentioning it prematurely," he replies with a sigh. "I was informed just this morning that I am to receive a new theatre nurse. You're being sent west, farther away from the front."

For several moments, I consider his words. I feel curiously numb. It's only practical questions that push to the forefront of my mind. "Do you know when I am going to leave? And where I am being sent?" I ask.

"Very soon, tomorrow or the day after that. You know how these things are never announced a long time in advance. But I do know that you won't have to travel far. _No. 7 Canadian Stationary Hospital_ is in Arques, which is just across the border, maybe halfway to the coast. An old school friend of mine from Kingston is serving as a doctor there," Dr Connelly explains.

He takes another slow bite from his sandwich and I follow his lead, more of an automatic reaction than because of hunger or appetite. I can feel his gaze on me. He seems to be relieved that I am taking this news so well.

And indeed, I feel quite calm within. There's just one tiny detail that jars, like a thorn in the flesh, all prickly and annoying.

For a moment, I hesitate, but then I ask, "Do you have any idea why I am being transferred? Is it something I did or…?" My thoughts immediately jump back to Not-Dead. But it's been almost two months since then. That can't be it, can it?

Dr Connelly shakes his head, quite decidedly. "It's definitely not something you did. I'll even miss working with you," he clarifies. "I just think it's about time for you to leave. Most nursing sisters stay in a CCS no longer than half a year and in total, it's been almost eight months for you now. I could imagine that someone has simply come to the conclusion that it's time to send you elsewhere."

"But the offensive…" I timidly interject.

Another shake of his head. "Passchendaele is taken. And it remains to be seen whether they'll continue the offensive now. There's no chance of reaching the coast this year, and the French have stabilized their army as well. They even took part of the Chemin des Dames last month, after all. There's no need anymore for keeping the Germans occupied in Flanders to buy more time for the French. Especially not at the cost of thousands of lives."

I frown. Can it be? Have we suffered through all this, these endless bloody fighting, just to _buy more time_ for the French?

If that's true, it would mean a new height of senselessness. The thought alone makes me shiver, but I shake it off instinctively. There's not helping it, after all.

"So you're saying I'm not needed here anymore," I summarize instead.

"I don't know about that," he amends, "But I am quite certain that it will do you good to leave this place. And if I may say something else?"

He looks at me questioningly and I shrug in answer. Out of the corner of my eye I see them roll in a patient. Our next case, probably. Because it doesn't end, does it? It's an endless dance, around and around and around.

"I think highly of your work, but I have a feeling that being here is not good for you. I've only known you for a short time, but even in these few weeks I've seen you become… more subdued," he cautiously explains. "The last time I saw you smile was when we treated that dog, and it's been a week since then."

"Windy," I reply and, at the thought, feel an improbable smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Windy was a big mongrel, black and white in colour, who came here with his master. He was a veteran of the Gallipoli campaign and was wounded at the Somme – he even wore a golden wound stripe, as the soldiers do. They brought him in last week with a fractured hind leg. We put it in splints and sent him back to the coast along with his owner, also injured.

Now, it's up for discussion as to how sensible or kind it is to drag animals into this war, but I do have to admit that the sight of Windy the dog made me smile.

Dr Connelly nods and continues, "And during our little Halloween party last week I couldn't shake the feeling that you wanted to be anywhere but there."

His feeling was correct. I didn't much want to go to that party, despite it having been only a small gathering of sisters and doctors on the occasion of Halloween. Still, had Miss Inglish (whom I do not suspect of being a lover of parties either) not persuaded me to attend, I wouldn't have gone. It seemed a useless effort at a time when almost everything has become too strenuous.

Truth is, I am just so unbelievably tired. I sleep little, and when I do, it's not enough. It's never enough. Days and nights merge into each other, an endless spiral of operations and amputations, of blood and pain and death. And each time when, after yet another sleepless night, the time comes for me to get up and face another day, I feel my arms and legs turn to lead, my head heavy, my mind blank.

Maybe Dr Connelly is right. Maybe it's time for me to leave this place.

The thought is so sudden that it surprises even me. My mind flashes back to that moment, five months ago, when I compelled Matron Burke to have me transferred to another CCS close to the front. I can't remember why I did it. It seemed important then, but I couldn't say why anymore. Something about wanting to feel useful? Looking back, it's inexplicable.

Which is, quite possibly, the most infallible sign that it is truly time for me to go. There's no protest stirring within me at the thought, only… what? _Relief_ , even?

My gaze moves past Dr Connelly, towards the back wall of the theatre. There's something stacked against it. It looks like logs of wood and I am just about to look away again, when I catch sight of something that gives me pause. It looks like… like a shoe? I narrow my eyes, look back at the pile of logs and now I see that it's not logs at all.

It's legs.

It's a pile of legs, stacked against the wall. Sawed-off legs.

 _Ritsch ratsch_.

I suppose they are to be buried or burned or whatever else the orderlies do with amputated body parts (why have I never thought about that before, I wonder?) and I suppose it's quite sensible to have them stacked there. It's only… there's something about the sight of this pile of _legs_ that I am not prepared for.

It hits me so suddenly and with such might that I reel backwards. _I want to leave_.

I don't want to be in this place, where we saw off the legs of nameless patients at hourly intervals, never asking how they feel about it or who they even are. I don't want to be in this place, where the thunder of the guns never ceases and the enemy airplanes never leave. I don't want to be in this place, where I forgot what it feels like to be happy.

It might not be very brave or heroic, and probably isn't very dutiful either, but the realization is almost palpable. I see it as clearly as I haven't seen anything else in a very long time. As clearly as I see the pile of legs against the wall.

 _I don't want to be here anymore._

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Far, far from Wipers' from sometime between 1914 to 1918 (source unknown, sung to the melody of 'Sing me to sleep')._

 _Windy the dog did exist. His owner was a private with either the 1_ _st_ _or 8_ _th_ _Service Battalion Lincolnshire Regiment and Windy followed him to the Mediterranean and the Western front, being wounded at the Somme. He was treated at No. 2 Canadian CCS on October 29_ _th_ _, 1917, after having been injured a second time during the fighting near Ypers. He was sent back to a base hospital with his owner, also wounded, but couldn't accompany him back to England. He was cared for by Lt.-Col. John McCrae at No. 3 CGH in Boulogne, before dying in January 1918 (probably after being poisoned)._


	31. Or you'll be to blame

_November 8_ _th_ _, 1917_ _ **  
**_ _No. 7 Canadian Stationary Hospital, Arques, France_

 **Or you'll be to blame**

My heels are loud on the stone steps of the chateau.

For it is a genuine French castle they have sent me to, from the muddy fields of Flanders. It is not even so far from Remy Siding, maybe 20 or 25 miles, and yet it is a different world. The castle where we nursing sisters are housed, and the garden in which they have erected four Nissen huts for the patients' wards, isn't big, but it's pretty, made from light yellow bricks and without too much unnecessary scrollwork. It stands on the Western outskirts of Arques, a small town of low brick buildings, traversed by canals and rivers. One of those canals runs by the castle, and it also borders both the cemetery and the church that seems far too big for the roughly 4000 regular inhabitants of Arques.

But then, there's nothing 'regular' about this area anymore. It marks the halfway point between the Flanders front and the coast, which is why the British army has taken over both Arques and the neighbouring St. Omer. From what I've heard, there are quite a number of soldiers stationed here, and there's an aerodrome of the Royal Flying Corps nearby as well. St. Omer houses four English hospitals, the smaller Arques has one other hospital besides ours – _No. 4 Stationary Hospital_ , which specialises in shell shock cases (or NYDN – Not Yet Diagnosed, Nervous – as they're called in army speak by now). It was thorough in its peaceful occupation, the British Army, as it always is.

I quickly evade an orderly who is just leaving the castle, causing him to pause and look after me in wonder. Great. It's only my second day here and already, they must think me quite mad.

Still, I hurry on without a moment of hesitation. I don't have the time for explanation or greetings or other social niceties. Only upon reaching my destination do I stop, breathing heavily.

Loudly, I rap my knuckles against the wood of the door. It takes a moment until a familiar voice calls out for me to enter.

I open the door, just far enough for me to slip through, then carefully close it again. Only then do I glance at the figure sitting behind a desk on the other side of the room. He's watching me. There's no telling what he is thinking.

When, upon my arrival yesterday, I learned that Dr Connelly's old school friend from Kingston is none other but Zachary Murray himself, I wondered whether fate had decided to play a cruel trick on me. Now though… now I have to consider that it might not be a trick at all, but simply _fated_ , him being here.

"Rilla," Zachary greets. "How may I help you?" His face is impassive still.

I, on the other hand, am both surprised and a little relieved at the form of address. Those are the first words he has spoken to me ever since I left Aubigny back in June. Seeing as I left without a word of explanation or even a goodbye, I wouldn't have held it against him if he had preferred not to refer to our old friendship. That he has chosen to do so anyway makes me feel quietly hopeful.

"I came here to ask a favour," I explain. My voice is surprisingly firm.

He nods and points towards a chair standing opposite the desk. I'd prefer to remain standing, but sit down in the interest of diplomacy.

"This is about Ford," Zachary remarks matter-of-factly.

I am so surprised that I accidentally look at him directly – this, too, for the first time in half a year. "You know he's here?" I ask, despite it being an obviously stupid question.

Zachary takes his time in answering. He considers me for a few moments before replying, "We don't usually treat officer patients. In this area, _No. 10 Stationary Hospital_ over in St. Omer is slated to accept officers. They only sent them to us when there are no empty beds there. When, upon studying the records this morning, I saw that this transport included officers, I went out to have a look at them. And yes – I recognised him."

An almost imperceptible shudder passes over his face. I don't know whether that's a good sign, but it's not as if I have much of an option. If Zachary won't help me, no one will – I am a stranger to everyone else in this unit after all. So, whatever it might do to my pride, I will plead and I will beg, unless he either agrees to help or asks me to leave.

I take a deep breath. In my head, the same words are stuck on repeat. I hear them over and over and over again, like a broken gramophone record that only ever plays the very same few tunes.

' _Sometimes I think I'd prefer to be dead than to live like this. Sometimes, I think I'd even make sure to_ be _dead rather than live that way.'_

I had forgotten about those words. Until – until I took one look at the patients in today's transport and they suddenly resurfaced in my mind, ugly, unbidden.

"They want to cut his leg off," I blurt out.

Zachary lays his fingertips against each other and gazes at me over his hands. "Yes, I thought they would," he replies calmly.

How can he be so bloody _calm_?

"But they _mustn't_ do it. Please! You have to… you have to _do_ something!" I try to catch his eye, my own pleading. Now, I truly am begging. Somehow, I don't even care.

"If the doctor treating him considers it the best course of action, I can't interfere with his decision," Zachary answers. He's still watching me closely.

"Of course you can!" I counter fiercely. „You're second-in-command of this unit, aren't you? If you tell them not to amputate, they won't do it!"

Zachary shakes his head. "I don't like to interfere in my colleagues' work," he explains. „And besides, an amputation might sound horrible now, but many men still live a good life afterwards. They can fit a prosthesis and…"

I can't bear this soothing talk anymore. Who does he think he's talking to? As if I haven't seen too much already for all his truisms to work on me! Thus, I harshly interrupt him, "The wound is too far up on his thigh. They'd have to take the whole leg. There won't be stump left to fit a prosthesis to."

After all, there's few things I am as knowledgeable about as amputations.

 _Ritsch ratsch_.

A sigh from Zachary drowns out the sound of the imaginary saw in my head. "That does complicate things," he admits. "But even without a prosthesis, a man can still have good life. Wheelchairs are ever improving as well, and Ford doesn't look like the type that would have to rely on physical work to earn his living. Many men in a similar situation live happy and fulfilling lives and I don't see why Ford shouldn't be among them."

But I do.

It takes a special kind of strength to learn to live with a body that is robbed of the abilities it used to have. I suppose a lot of men manage somehow, but many don't. And I know, with sudden clarity, that Ken won't belong to those that do. He might be strong in different ways, but this special strength isn't given to him. We all have our weaknesses and this is his. The life Zachary describes isn't one he could ever get used to.

' _Sometimes I think I'd prefer to be dead than to live like this. Sometimes, I think I'd even make sure to_ be _dead rather than live that way.'_

It's up to me to prevent this very last consequence. There's no one else to do it.

We lost Jerry already. We can't lose anybody else.

"He wouldn't be able to cope with it. You have to do something. _Please_!" I implore Zachary.

I lean forward slightly, try to hold his gaze with mine. And for the first time since I entered this room, he looks uncomfortable. As I lean forwards, he leans back, avoids looking at me.

Then, after sheer endless seconds, he shakes his head. Hesitatingly, slowly, but unmistakably.

There's a sudden crunching sound. Vaguely I am aware of a diffuse pain in my left hand. As I look down, a droplet of bloods spills from my tightly clenched fist onto my apron. Cautiously, I open my fingers. Small splinters of glass mix with tiny marbles of mercury, remnants of the thermometer I must have held and forgotten.

"Here, let me have a look at that," Zachary requests. I look up, see him standing next to me now. He holds out a hand to me and after a moment of hesitation, I place mine in his.

He surveys my hand for several seconds, then carefully lets go of it again. He walks over to a cupboard in one corner of the room and when he comes back, he holds an enamel kidney dish, a pair of tweezers, a bottle of iodine and dressing material.

Zachary kneels down next to me, and brushes loose splinters and mercury drops into the kidney bowl. Then, using the tweezers, he pulls out the splinters that have bitten into my skin. There's a slight twinge, but no real pain – or maybe I just don't feel it yet.

Silently, I watch him work, until he finally puts the tweezers down on the desk. "Move your fingers, please," he asks. I close my hand into a fist, open it again, move all five fingers.

A short nod from him makes me still my movements. "You are lucky. Those cuts aren't deep," he explains, rising from his kneeling position. "There's no need to suture them. I'll dress the wound and you'll wear these until the cuts have closed." The reaches behind himself and drops a pair of gloves into my lap.

I wouldn't even dream of protesting. Infected hands are one of the main reasons for why nurses and doctors become patients themselves. The wounds we treat are often terribly infected, full of dirt and pus and bacteria. We don't always have gloves to wear during the treatment and a tiny cut on your finger suffices for the whole hand to get infected. In Taplow there even was a sister who had to have her hand amputated because of it.

Which leads us right back to the issue at hand.

"You have to help him," I plead once more, "Please! For me." The moment I have spoken those last two words I wonder whether they might have been a mistake. There was a time when I suppose I had the right to speak them, but I forfeited that right when I left without so much as a goodbye.

But it's like I said – we all have our weaknesses and this is one of mine.

Zachary considers me thoughtfully. His face his impassive, but there's a flicker in his eyes. He's thinking, at the very least. And I'm willing to grasp at any straw presenting itself.

"Have a look at him at least," I suggest as I rise from my chair.

A second of hesitation, then he nods. "Can't hurt, can it?" he murmurs, more to himself than to me. Still, it's all I need for now.

We don't speak another word as we hurry towards the Nissen hut housing the ward for severe surgical cases. Once there, Zachary stops near the doorway to exchange a few words with the doctor on duty, while I make my way between the rows of beds to the end of the ward where a screen hides three officers from the other ranks.

Ken's eyes are still closed. He was already unconscious when they brought him in. Gently, I lay my good hand on his forehead, feeling for his temperature. I can't be sure of it, on account of the destroyed thermometer, but I've gotten quite good at being able to identify a fever on my own. Ken's warmer than I would like, but he isn't burning up. More than anything else, he seems terribly exhausted.

Yes, and there's the wound on his left leg, of course. I take a moment to study it once more. It looks awful. A deep, jagged gash high on his thigh. A dark, angry red. A shrapnel wound, from the looks of it.

And then, very slowly, a smell reaches my nose. That disgusting, sickly-sweet smell I have learned to fear above all others. I close my eyes. It confirms my worst fears.

"Gas gangrene," Zachary voices what I can't say out loud. He must have stepped behind me without me noticing.

I open my eyes. "But it hasn't progressed very far yet," I immediately point out. He can't back down now!

Instead of replying, Zachary leans closer to inspect the wound. Several moments pass in which he surveys it closely, before straightening again. My gaze falls on Ken's face. His eyes are still closed, his breathing is shallow.

"You are right, inasmuch as the infection doesn't seem to have spread yet," Zachary slowly remarks. "But we have to consider the time. If he was wounded during the capture of Passchendaele, it's been two days. Two days are a long time where gas gangrene is concerned."

"Yesterday!" I interject with some triumph, "He was only wounded yesterday. It's all written down there." I wave my hand to indicate the Field Medical Card that every patient wears attached to his body and on which treatments and diagnoses are jotted down.

If we catch gas gangrene within the first 24 hours, we have a chance. He must see that!

Thoughtfully, Zachary inclines his head. "That does change things," he admits. "And yet… I still think that the most promising course of action would be to –"

I hurry to interrupt him, lest he say anything I don't want to hear. "Debridement," I announce, "Followed by treatment according to the Carrel-Dakin method. You do keep Eusol here, don't you?"

I look up at Zachary but doubt is still plainly written across his face.

"It does work, you know. I have seen many patients whom it has helped," I continue my argument. It's not even a lie. Dr MacIver was a vocal advocate of debridement for infected wounds.

A debridement is a surgical excision where the infected and necrotic tissue is cut away completely. Afterwards, the wounds often look much worse than before, but it's the only way to stop the infection from spreading. And if the debridement is followed by treatment according to Carrel-Dakin, which involves soaking the wound in antiseptic Dakin solution – also called Eusol – it hopefully makes the last remnants of infection disappear.

If it works, we can save the leg. If it doesn't, the gas gangrene will kill him.

I swallow. My gaze moves back to Ken. He's far too pale, and suddenly doubts rise within me. An amputation would be the safest way to treat him. The treatment I am suggesting could possibly be successful, but it could also fail terribly. And if it fails, he'll be on my conscience. I'm not fooling myself there.

And yet –

' _Sometimes I think I'd prefer to be dead than to live like this. Sometimes, I think I'd even make sure to_ be _dead rather than live that way.'_

Do I even have a choice?

I look back towards Zachary. He seems to be deep in thought. "The Carrel-Dakin method is very time-consuming in its administration," he points out. "And I can't foresee how many patients we will receive in the next few days. I am reluctant to put even more strain on the personnel."

Raising a hand, I interrupt him. "No problem. I will take care of it. It won't be a burden to anyone else," I promise.

Zachary nods slowly. "I wonder why it is of such importance to you that he keeps his leg," he remarks. The tone of his voice makes it sound almost casual, but his eyes are alert.

I give a helpless shrug, turn my head away. What can I answer to this except for a truth that never had any right of existence in the first place?

Once more, several seconds pass in silence, during which Zachary moves his gaze from me to the wound and back again. Finally, he looks at Ken. "He's lucky to have you," he declares abruptly.

There we are!

I'm so relieved I take a step towards him, to _somehow_ express my gratefulness, but immediately think better of it. Instead, I give him my best smile, which he does not return. I can't even blame him.

"I'm going to talk to his doctor and the surgeon," he explains very matter-of-factly. "He has to be operated on as quickly as possible. If we dare take your approach, every minute counts."

"Of course," I agree, nodding vigorously. I suddenly feel very light-headed.

As Zachary turns and hurriedly leaves the ward, I take step closer to Ken's bed. Without thinking, I touch his hand, lying motionless on the bed. I let my fingers close around his.

"They're going to operate on you," I tell him. "There's an infection in your leg and we have to cut away the infected tissue to stop it from spreading. This kind of infection spreads very quickly, so we don't have much time left. But the operation will help and afterwards, we're going to treat the infection with an antiseptic solution. You'll see, it will help you. I've often seen how well it works." I'm not quite sure who I am even trying to convince.

Ken, at any rate, doesn't move. I squeeze his hand, lying limply in my own. I wish he'd wake up. Wake up and tell me I did the right thing. That he would have made the same decision. I squeeze his hand a little tighter, look down at him imploringly, as if I could make him open his eyes just by wanting it badly enough.

His eyes remain closed.

"Ma'am?" there's another voice from behind me instead. As I turn my head, I see two orderlies standing there.

"We're supposed to take the patient to the operating theatre," one of them explains. He's speaking slowly, cautiously, putting too much emphasizes on his words and I realize he's doing it for my sake.

I let go of Ken's hand, not without reluctance. "Take good care of him," I ask, try for a careless laugh and fail spectacularly.

The orderlies exchange a glance, but that's more than I can deal with now. I take a step back, watching them transfer Ken to a stretcher, still without waking him. They both give me short nods before taking him away, through the ward and outside, where the operating theatre awaits.

I remain standing next to the now empty bed, burying my fingernails into the palm of my right hand, and can't help wondering if I have just made a terrible mistake.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' from 1912 (lyrics and music by Jack Judge)._


	32. Old soldiers never die

_November 9_ _th_ _, 1917_ _ **  
**_ _No. 7 Canadian Stationary Hospital, Arques, France_

 **Old soldiers never die**

I wake up surrounded by darkness.

For a moment, I am disoriented, blinking into the dark. The hospital is blacked out at night, to keep it hidden from enemy airplanes, so there are only two lamps lit in the entire ward. One is up at the front with the sister on duty, and the other one stands on a night table next to me, giving off a dim light.

I sit up, ignore the pain in my back and the ache in my shoulders, then pick myself off of the floor. Holding my little alarm clock under the dim light of the lamp, I narrow my eyes, try to see the position of the clock hands – and freeze.

Almost six in the morning!

Frantically, I drop the alarm clock down on the table below, grab the light instead. I twist the knob in an attempt to get more light, but only succeed in snuffing it out completely. Cursing softly, I stand there in the darkness, helpless, desperate.

Then I see a light approaching through the ward.

"Are you alright, darling?" asks the night sister, eyeing me over her own lamp.

"I… I overslept," I whisper. „My alarm… I…" The initial shock gives way to panic. Instinctively, I hide my face in my hands.

"Now, now, sweetheart," the night sisters murmurs consolingly. She steps beside me, gently rubbing my back.

I raise my head to look at her. "You don't understand!" I exclaim, fierce in my desperation. "The wound needs to be irrigated with the solution every two hours. I was supposed to do it, I set my alarm, but somehow – it didn't ring! The last time I treated the wound was…" Yes, when? I can remember taking care of it at ten in the evening. Afterwards, I just wanted to get a bit of sleep, set my alarm for midnight and then… nothing.

Eight hours. _Eight_!

With gas gangrene, eight hours are an eternity. Helpless, I turn my gaze away, stare into the darkness.

"Don't worry, sweetie," the night sister placates and pats my back. "I took care of him. He received his solutions ( **plural?)** every two hours, on the dot."

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. Then I slowly turn my head, look at her incredulously. "But… but I promised Zacha – well, _Dr Murray_ , that I would do it," I protest weakly.

The night sister laughs, if quietly so as not to wake the patients. "You have the look of someone who needs a few nights of rest and couple of decent meals more than anything else," she kindly points out, "and I had a quiet night. Why wake you every two hours when I'm awake anyway and can take care of it?"

She inclines her head and looks quite as if expecting an actual answer to her question. I have none, just raise my shoulders in a helpless shrug.

She nods, satisfied. "There you have it. I turned your alarm off just before it rang and then set it for two hours further ahead each time. That way, if I had been busy somewhere else, it would have woken you and you could have taken care of him." She smiles at her plan, not without triumph.

I blink, still a little gobsmacked. "Thanks," I manage, "Thank you, Miss… Johnson?"

"Johnston," she corrects. "But you can call me Maud, darling."

"Rilla," I respond automatically, taking the hand she has offered.

Maud gives it a short shake, then turns towards re-lighting my extinguished lamp. Some moments pass before she turns back around and hands me the now lit lamp. The light falls on Ken's sleeping face.

"Handsome boy," Maud remarks as she looks at him.

"Hm?" I follow her gaze, give a shrug. He's handsome, I suppose, but that hardly matters right now, does it?

Maud laughs, extends a hand to pat my cheek. "Oh, sweetheart…" she says, shaking her head, eyes twinkling amusedly.

Because I have no idea what _that_ 's supposed to mean, I turn back towards Ken's leg and thus, safe territory. I raise my lamp to shine onto the wound, though there's not much to be seen through the outer dressing covering it. Still, I know exactly what's beneath it.

I knew that the wound would look that much more horrible after the debridement, and yet, when I first laid eyes on it after the operation, it shocked me for a moment. Beforehand, there was a cut in his flesh. Now, half his thigh gapes open. Several tubes lead into the wound, which is also packed with pieces of gauze, wetted with Dakin's solution. The tubes connect to an apparatus standing next to me, and through them, the antiseptic solution flows into the wound every two hours. That way, we can be sure that the wound and the pieces of gauze are wetted with the solutions at any time, without being soaked in it. The whole dressing has to be changed daily in the first few days. It's an elaborate procedure, requiring a doctor and two nurses at the very least. And above everything we do, there's always the need to keep the wound, and everything in contact with it, completely sterile.

"Any other incidents?" I ask of Maud, still standing next to me. "Did he wake up?"

She shakes her head. "No, nothing of note otherwise. He was awake once at about two o'clock, but completely disoriented. He fell back asleep very soon. He's exhausted, the poor boy."

Slowly, I nod. It hardly comes as a surprise that he's both disoriented and exhausted, after being wounded, transported for several dozens of miles, and operated on. Still, I'm glad he's been awake already. It means that he's come through the anaesthetic quite well.

Maud takes a look at a small watch hanging from her apron. Then she reaches behind me, takes up my alarm clock and turns it off. Of course. There's no need for it to ring and wake the patients when I'm awake anyway.

"Do you want to go and catch some more sleep? I can take care of him and I doubt you slept well, down there on the floor," she offers kindly.

The thought is alluring, but I shake my head. "No, I'm staying. My shift starts at eight anyway, and I'm awake now. I'll take care of him from here on. But thank you so much!"

There's something akin to doubt in Maud's eyes, but then she just reaches out and squeezes my hand. "You're welcome, sweetie," she assures. One last look at me, then she turns to continue her round through the ward.

During the next minutes, I am busy administering the antiseptic solution. It's an exact science: the solution isn't very stable and the formula has to be followed closely when preparing it. When administering it, both the length of the treatment itself and the length of time between two treatments have to be observed meticulously.

I've only just finished this round of treatment, when I hear a soft sound. Turning quickly, I see that Ken has woken up. Blinking confusedly at his surroundings, he tries to sit up, but I hurry to press him back down. He allows it, but raises his head to look at me.

"Where am I?" he asks, voice hoarse.

"Hospital," I answer, trying to sound as soothing as I can manage. "It's alright."

He wets his chapped lips. His eyes flit to and fro. "Poperinghe?" he wants to know.

"No, in Arques," I correct mutedly.

"France," he says, lets his head sink back into the pillow. His eyes close. For a moment, he lies there motionlessly, before one eye opens back up and considers me skeptically.

"Are you even real then? Or are you just some figment of my imagination?" he asks.

I have to suppress a smile, but the question seems to be an earnest one. The eye still looks at me warily.

"I'm real," I assure him.

The eye blinks.

"Certain?" he enquires.

Now I do smile. "Fairly."

The eye closes. "Good," he sighs. "That's good."

He lies still, as if this short exchange of words has already exhausted him. I take the moment to feel for a pulse at his wrist. Fast, but steady. When I move to pull back my hand, his fingers close around mine, hold them tight. For a second or two, I remain standing, but when he makes no motion to let go again, I sit down on the edge of his bed.

Moments pass and I just start wondering whether he might have fallen asleep. Then though, without so much as opening his eyes or moving at all, he suddenly asks, "Do I still have my leg? Can you tell me? I don't dare look. I mean, I can _feel_ it alright, but that doesn't really mean anything." His voice is strained, his hand holds mine a little tighter.

"You still have both legs," I am quick to reassure.

I can see him breathe a sigh, see how part of the tension leaves his body. Then he opens his eyes, searching for my gaze. He seems more awake now, even raising his head up a little once again.

"I would have bet good money on someone cutting off my leg while I was asleep," he remarks pensively.

I give a short shrug. "They did think about it…" I cautiously explain, "The wound was infected, see?"

"Gas gangrene," Ken replies, voice toneless. "There's nothing in the world that smells quite like it."

No, there really isn't.

"Gas gangrene," I confirm. "But you were lucky. We caught it early and could begin immediate treatment. It hadn't progressed very far yet. They operated on you to cut away the infected tissue. They had to pull out a muscle, so the leg will be quite weak initially, but from my experience, the smaller muscles can be trained to take over for the missing one with time. For now, we're keeping the wound clean and treat it with an antiseptic solution, to make the rest of the infection go away."

I realize I'm babbling, yet I can't help it. For whatever reason, I feel nervous.

"What if the rest of it doesn't go away?" Ken wants to know. "Will they still take the leg then, after all?"

That, or you die.

I clear my throat, but the lump in it doesn't move.

"Rilla?" Ken asks, squeezing my hand.

So I seek salvation in medical facts. "If the infection spreads further, we have to amputate. Otherwise, it'll spread to your organs and then there's nothing we can do anymore. This is an attempt to save your leg and our experiences with this treatment are good, but I can't guarantee that it'll work. We have to wait and see."

He nods, scrutinising me for several seconds. "There's something else," he realizes.

When I don't answer, he gently nudges me with his free hand. "Come on. Why start denying the truth now, of all times?"

He has a point. In that strange acquaintance that connects us, we have always been honest with one another. It was only ever the truth, even when a lie might have hurt less.

"There's the possibility…" I reply, if hesitatingly, "Well, the possibility of the infection spreading without us catching it in time. We're observing you closely of course, so that we don't miss it, but if we _do_ … if the infection spreads and we don't notice in time, then…" I break off, cannot say what I should be saying.

"Then I die," Ken replies. He sounds very calm.

I nod, mutely.

He takes a deep breath, lets his head sink back again, eyes closing. "Strange thought," he remarks.

I swallow hard.

"An amputation is the safest way," I explain, quietly, haltingly, "The leg is gone then, of course, but with it, the cause of infection is gone as well. If we amputate, the chances of survival are highest. The treatment we're trying right now… well, it was my idea. I didn't want you to wake up to find your leg gone. But the risk – the risk remains. I would have asked you but you were unconscious and it had to happen quickly and so I convinced Zachary not to amputate. That was my decision."

Watching him anxiously, I think back to that day, just two short weeks ago, when he left without another word, without so much as a look back. We haven't spoken since. Who's to know how he will take this, me making such an important decision in his stead?

But when he opens his eyes again, they are kind. "So now I am indebted to _Murray_?" he wants to know. "God, he'll love that." Then he laughs softly and I can't say if he's being serious or not.

The laugh calms me a little. Still, I reach out my free hand, tug at his blanket, just to do _something_. "If you prefer us to amputate, you only have to say so. I totally understand. It's not my place to decide this for you anyway," this without looking at him.

I fall silent, my gaze fixed on the bed. Only once Ken's thumb brushes over the back of my hand do I notice that I have held my breath. I turn my head, look over to him. He has pushed himself upwards into a half-sitting position, his upper body supported by his left arm.

"You made the right decision," he assures, his voice quiet but sincere. "Sure, there's a risk, but there always is. If they had amputated, couldn't it also be that I fall into a shock during the operation and die from that?" He raises both eyebrows.

I nod, part surprise, part wariness.

"There you go. There's always some risk involved. And if you think this treatment is the right one, then that's enough for me. And besides, you're here to take care of me, aren't you?" And once more, he looks at me, in a way that's so intense I have to turn my head away after but a few moments.

"Our doctors are very good. You can trust them," I reply, because I can't think of anything else to say.

"I trust you," he responds simply.

And with that, I am truly lost. I have no idea what to say to that. I don't even dare look at him, just sit there for several seconds, eyes fixed on the grey blanket.

I am rescued by Ken starting to cough suddenly. I hasten to draw back my hand, then stand up so quickly that I feel light-headed for a moment. Grasping at the bedframe, I hold onto it until the world beneath me feels secure again.

Ken's cough has subsided. He has sunk back into his pillow, clearly exhausted.

"Do you need a drink?" I query, even as I am already busy filling up a glass of water. He nods, tries to get up, but he's far too weak for any such thing of course, however much he tries to cover it up. So I help him, lean down and support him into a half-sitting position, enabling him to take a few sips of water.

The interlude gives me a few moments to collect myself. It might seem curious at first that it calms me, especially when one considers how _close_ we suddenly are, but the nature of it is different. Now I am nurse and he is patient. I can deal with that. With the other thing, however…

"Thank you," Ken murmurs, handing the glass back to me. He sighs and I help him lie back down. Only then do I straighten, put down the glass.

"You should sleep," I tell him. "You're tired." His look is one of sheer exhaustion.

He nods, taking a deep breath. "I will. But first, let me apologise to you," he replies. His gaze moves to settle on my face once more and, without thinking, I sink back down onto the edge of his bed.

"Whatever for?" I ask, truly surprised.

Ken pulls a face. "For that scene in your CCS last month. That was uncalled for."

"Oh. That." I don't know what else to say.

"Yes," nods Ken, "That. I should never have asked you to lie for me, and to depart in such a fashion, after you rightfully declined to do it… well, it wasn't one of my best moments. It's just that I was so terribly stressed. I knew they had brought us in for one reason alone and that I'd soon be burying too many of my men again. When Persis' letter came – it was more than I could bear. Still, I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm truly sorry."

"It's alright. You're worried, for your men and for Persis," I console with a tiny shrug.

Ken smiles faintly. "That I am. Rightfully, too, I think. Persis has… she's wonderful, but when you consider how many countries she's already visited, she knows surprisingly little about how the world works. She has this _idea_ stuck in her head, about how it is very romantic and merciful to nurse wounded soldier. And, well, I don't have to tell you that there's no romance in war." He laughs and it's a bitter sound.

I nod, silent. People can think what they want about this war, but there's certainly nothing romantic about it.

"She has no idea what she'd be signing up for if she came here," Ken continues. "Sure, none of us had that. You can't imagine this place if you haven't seen it with your own eyes. But Persis' notions about war don't connect to reality at all. I'm just worried that the shock of having her romanticized idea meet the reality of war will be hard on her."

Frowning, I raise my head, meet his gaze. "I wrote to her," I admit. "Not – not what you asked me to write, but… well, the truth, I think. The good and the bad of it. I thought if she knew – well, if she knew, she could make a more informed decision."

Surprise registers on his face, but then, Ken nods slowly. "Good. Not that I think it changes a thing, though. Nothing you could have written would have made Persis change her mind once she had made it up. I see that now. Even if you had written the later I asked you to, that wouldn't have been enough to convince her. But what can I say? We try to protect what is dear to us, even while we actually know better."

There's a small sting I feel at his words. The tiniest of feelings, almost imperceptibly, and yet, not be ignored. And I can't help wondering what it _means_ , this stinging little feeling.

Ken, meanwhile, is still talking. "Nothing about this excuses my behaviour though. I wanted to come to you, you know, to apologise. But there was no room for apologies in our plan of attack." He grimaces slightly.

"It was very bad, wasn't it?" I ask cautiously.

"It's no place for man or beast," he responds simply. Which might be everything anyone ever needs to know about Passchendaele.

Silence settles between us, both of us caught in our memories of what has come to pass.

It is Ken, once more, who breaks it. "Anyway, I suppose I just have to learn to understand when I can't protect Persis anymore, much as I may want to," he remarks, sounding pensive. "It's really not so different from you, is it? Just because no one can protect you anymore doesn't mean you don't wish for it."

The sting disappears as quickly as it came. In its stead, there's surprise and – yes, for a moment something akin to clarity.

I thought his request had mostly bothered me because he, who has been so honest to me, asked me to lie to his sister for him. And that's true still. It… well, it _disappointed_ me. But there was something else as well – the sting. Because if he was prepared to lie to Persis to protect her – Persis who means the world to him – what then, would that have said about me? I appreciated his honesty, hard as it was sometimes, but what would it have meant? Wouldn't it have been a sign of his honesty being mired in indifference? A sign of the fact that he didn't consider me _worthy_ of the effort of a lie?

Now, though… oh, why does he always have to be so confusing?

Aware of his eyes on me and not trusting my face not to give away my feelings, I quickly stand up. I spend some seconds straightening his blanket, still feeling his gaze on me.

Then he yawns and I grab at the lifeline with both hands.

"For now, you're going to have to get used to other people taking care of you," I inform him and am proud at the almost flippant tone in my voice. "And I will start doing so presently and order you to get some sleep. You're exhausted and you need to rest."

Ken smiles, though what about, I am not quite sure. "Will you still be there when I wake up?" he asks. "I'm not wholly convinced that I haven't been imagining you all along, see?"

I return the smile without much thought. "I'll be here, don't worry. This is my ward and I have the day shift, starting in a few minutes. And at night it's my job to keep up with your treatment, which is why I will sleep on the floor down there until further notice."

"I'd act the gentleman and offer you the bed, but…" Ken quips, pulling a comical face.

Laughing, I shake my head. "No, it's alright. It's my job, after all."

He doesn't join into my laughter though. Instead, he's suddenly very serious. "No. No, it isn't," he counters and his gaze is so intense I feel myself growing nervous.

For no, it isn't my job. What I did for him is much more than my job would ever require of me. I know that, Zachary knows it, even Maud Johnston knows it. And now, apparently, Ken knows as well.

Still, it might be true a hundred times over – it is the one truth I can _never_ admit.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Old soldiers never die' from 1914-1918 (source unknown, music from the 19_ _th_ _century hymn 'Kind word can never die' by Abigail Hutchinson)._


	33. There's gladness follows pain

_November 21_ _st_ _, 1917_ _ **  
**_ _No. 7 Canadian Stationary Hospital, Arques, France_

 **There's gladness follows pain**

"Good evening, Maud," I greet cheerfully as I enter the ward.

Maud eyes me critically. "What are you doing here?" she asks, shaking her head.

"Same thing I do every evening, my dear Maud," I reply easily.

It garners me another shake of the head. "You just did an entire day shift," she reminds. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Never forget, I spent eight months just behind the frontline. This whole place feels like rest to me. So very quiet!" I inform her with a smile.

It's the truth, too. We have far fewer patients here in Arques than in the two CCS I served with. They each had about 1000 beds, while it's only about 400 here and those aren't even occupied to full capacity. The work is so very different from how it was closer to the frontline and while we _do_ work, of course, it lacks that horrible urgency.

Since my arrival in Arques, we've had 200 admissions. In Aubigny, we had that many on a single day, on average, and in Poperinghe, it was even more, often enough. We had a system in place which had all four CCS taking turns – whenever one had admitted 200 new patients, the next one took over. Far too often, it was our turn again before the day was over, which is why we often admitted far more than 200 patients.

On July 31st and in the following night alone, we had almost 2200 new patients in only 17 hours – in the pouring rain! During the night, there was no ambulance train to be had for several hours, so we couldn't even transport patients further back. There were moments when we didn't know where to put all those wounded, whose number far exceeded anything we had expected.

It might be understandable, therefore, that working this hospital, despite being sometimes hard and sometimes long, feels like a rest to me. Maud shaking her head at me won't change that.

She's doing it again, by the way, but I know her quite well by now – she doesn't really mean it.

"Have you at least eaten properly?" she demands to know.

I nod agreeably. "I've just been to supper," I tell her.

Maud's expression is still skeptical, but when I smile at her once more, she obviously can't help a smile in return, much as she fights the impulse.

"Very well then, sweetie. At least tell me what's happened out in the world," she asks with a little sigh that is clearly for my benefit, and clearly meant to express that she considers me incorrigible.

As if that's news to me!

I quickly look down at the newspaper tugged under my arm. "Oh, well, _something_ is happening in Russia," I inform her. "Again. Still. What do I know? I defy anyone to understand the Russians."

"Not me, darling," Maud agrees in a heavy tone, quite as if the Russian situation bothers her greatly.

If word on the street is correct and they truly do capitulate, there might yet come a day when the Russian situation will be a bother to all of us, but _if_ they capitulate is still quite unclear. It's as I said: I defy anyone to understand the Russians!

"The British took Yafa some days ago and are moving towards Jerusalem," I continue my report. "And there's a new offensive going on near Cambrai. Lots of tanks, apparently. Or at least there are, if all those tanks don't disappear into the mud as they did in Flanders." I pull a face at the memory.

From what I've gathered, there is no Canadian involvement in that new offensive. After they took Passchendaele, the majority of the Corps was sent back to the area around Lens where they had spent almost all of 1917. Shirley's unit is actually training in a small hamlet south of Arques at the moment, many miles from the front. And, well, I have no doubt about Kenneth's current whereabouts, have I?

Maud sighs. "It never stops, does it?"

I nod, then shrug, because what is there to say? I never _does_ stop.

Some moments pass before Maud shakes off the gloom so untypical of her anyway. "But don't let an old woman delay you any longer. Your pretty officer is probably waiting already," she remarks with a fine smile.

Now it's me shaking my head, but I decide to remain silent, just smile to myself. We've had this discussion countless of times already and none of my assurances that Ken's isn't my _anything_ has ever done anything to sway Maud. It's easier you to let her believe whatever she wants.

As I take her advice and step around the screen now, shielding those few officers from the other ranks, I take a moment to look at Ken. Two weeks have brought about a small miracle. He had to have another operation a few days after the first one because there was a bit of infected tissue to cut away still, but ever since then, things have been looking up. He has gained weight and colour and doesn't have that look of exhaustion about him anymore. And the Carrel-Dakin treatment has proven its worth once more. Even Zachary had to admit that the wound is healing nicely. A while ago, I was even able to swap the ward's floor for my camp bed in the Sister's quarters again, something my back is decidedly grateful for.

Just now, Ken is sitting upright in his bed, immersed in a letter. Only when I come to stand next to him does he raise his head, but when he recognizes me, a welcoming smile spreads across his face.

"Everything alright?" I query, dropping the newspaper on his bedside table. It might sound strange, considering I've done duty in this ward the entire day, but when I'm on duty he's just one of many. It's only when Maud has taken over and cares for the rest of them that we are free to talk.

"Sure is," Ken confirms. He lowers the letter and watches me as I make myself comfortable on the edge of his bed.

"Did you have mail today as well? News from home?" he asks once I've settled down.

I nod, laughing softly as I think of today's post. "I had a letter from Di," I tell him. "She is quite torn about the election next month. On one hand, she's ecstatic about women being finally allowed to vote. On the other hand, she is much opposed to the fact that she is only allowed to vote because she has brothers in the army. Mildred doesn't have any near relatives in uniform and she's barred from voting, which both of them consider a right shame."

"Which it is," Ken agrees with a shrug. "There's no logical reason for tying women's vote to their male relatives and whether they're in uniform or not."

"Or whether the woman herself is in uniform. We nurses are allowed to vote as well, completely on our own merit," I add, not without pride.

Ken nods to accept my point. "Still, Borden is only doing it because he knows that the majority of wives and mothers and sisters of soldiers support conscription. As he supports conscription himself, he counts on their votes keeping him in office. And it would surprise me if that doesn't happen." He grimaces slightly at the thought.

"Don't tell me you're a liberal?" I ask with a smile. In contrast to Di, I've never taken much interest in politics, partly because as a woman, I've had no way to actually influence it, but I was born into a conservative family and I know that Ken knows that.

He gives me a fleeting smile, probably for this very reason, before answering, "If pressed, the liberal way of thinking is closer to mine, I suppose. Not that I consider _another_ fifteen years of Laurier the answer – if he'd even manage to live that long – but I do think they were wrong to force him out of office back then. Trade reciprocity with the Yanks is something we could have profited from in the long run."

"If you say so," I reply peaceably. I know about as much about economics as I know about politics, but seeing as Ken has studied both at university, his opinion is probably well-founded.

"Besides," he continues, "I'm opposed to conscription."

This does succeed in catching my interest. " _Really_?" I ask surprised, sitting up a little straighter.

Ken laughs. "Unpopular opinion, I know," he admits. "But yes, I'm against conscription on a purely moral ground. It might make sense from a military standpoint, because above everything, we're wasting _humans_ in this war, but that's also why I think conscription to be fairly awful."

Well, this surprises me. It is regarded as any acknowledged truth that every soldier fighting overseas has to be a supporter of conscription on principle, if only because he is expected to feel a deep aversion for any able-bodied man not wasting his best years in a trench. For Ken to position himself so decidedly against it comes unexpected.

"What do you mean by 'moral ground'?" I enquire curiously.

"That I, not having to worry about where to get more soldiers from, allow myself the luxury of considering the question of conscription not from a practical viewpoint but from an ethical one," he answers readily.

Not that that answer was any clearer than the last once, so I cock my head to the side and blink at him silently. He laughs.

"I know that many opponents of conscription explain their rejection of it by arguing that moral and fighting spirit are superior in an army of volunteers," he explain. "That's nonsense, if you ask me. The English have had conscripts in their ranks for a year now and many of them are braver and more reliable than many a man who volunteered. Just because someone signs a slip of paper, for whatever personal reasons and in total ignorance of what awaits him, that doesn't turn him into a better soldier."

"But the Canadian and Australian units are only made up of volunteers so far and you said yourself that they're regarded as good fighters," I argue.

"For us, that's got less to do with volunteering and quite a lot to do with Currie," Ken responds with a shrug. "Whether you like the man or not – he _is_ rather aloof – you'd be hard-pressed to find a better commander on the whole Western Front. And good commanders save lives. Vimy Ridge, you see, was almost an impossibility. Currie, even more than General Byng, made it possible. And somehow he managed to bring us through the hell that was Passchendaele even though, by right, the majority of us should never have left the place. God be with us if they take Currie from us."

There's so much conviction in his voice that I can do little but nod. I've heard of General Currie before, of course I have, but I've never had much of an opinion of him. If Ken, who has apparently even met him, thinks this highly of Currie, who am I to doubt it?

"Alright. I will include General Currie in my evening prayers from now on, shall I?" I quip in an attempt to lighten the mood a bit. "But that still doesn't explain why you're opposed to conscription."

Ken laughs softly, but then grows serious again. "I just think it's not right to _force_ someone to fight a war. Sure, we're all of us experiencing horrible things every day and none of us knew what they were signing up for when they volunteered – but we _did_ volunteer. We're all of us here because we decided to be. We were naïve and ignorant, but it was our own decision – our own _fault_. That's one truth no one can take from us. But to force someone into this war at gunpoint – and you better believe they shoot anyone who tries to resist! – seems pretty barbaric to me."

I frown, thoughtful. I've never thought about it this way, to be honest, but there's sense to what he's saying. We might need conscription for purely practical reasons – I can hardly be the judge of that – but from a moral point of view, there's hardly any faulting of what Ken said.

"So… we have to vote for Laurier then?" I aks, wrinkling my nose.

Ken shakes his head, laughing. "You can vote for whomever you want," he clarifies. "But as for me, yes, I suppose I'll have to vote liberal."

"Difficult pill to swallow," I remark, trying for a sorrowful expression.

"No way around it," Ken replies, grinning. "But enough of politics now. Did the mail offer up anything else but Di's lament about the sorry state of women's suffrage?"

"I had a letter from Faith," I relay. "Ian has a tricycle and is apparently zooming about on it and getting in everyone's way. It has made Faith realize that her little boy will be attending school in two short years, which means that he is practically grown up already and is liable to get married and leave house in absolutely no time. The thought seems to truly weigh on her, which is patently absurd, of course."

" _Mothers_!" Ken replies simply, raising both eyebrows.

"Quite" I agree with a nod. Then however, as I remember something else from Faith's letter, I pause for a moment before continuing more sombrely. "Oh – and Nan laughed. By mistake. The first time since August. When she realized, she burst into tears and ran upstairs."

Ken sighs. „Poor Nan," he murmurs and I know for a fact that we're both wondering the same thing – will she _ever_ get over this?

Some moments pass in silence. But we can't _always_ be sad without turning mad over it, can we?

"What about you? Any interesting letters?" I therefore enquire, trying for a cheerful tone.

Ken appears grateful for the change of subject. "My parents have asked me to thank you for sending them that telegram. You've spared them a lot of worry," he relays.

I shake my head. "Please don't mention it. It was nothing."

"It was thoughtful of you to do it," Ken insists. And then, before I have a chance to reply, he adds, almost casually, "I had a letter from Persis as well. She's in England."

Oh.

Desperately, I try to think of something to say but in the end, there's just one question on my mind. "How do you feel about it?"

"Not as bad as I thought I would, to be honest. I suppose deep down I knew all along that nothing would ever keep her away once she'd made up her mind about it. Persis is the most stubborn creature I've ever met. I might not like it much, but the days when I could still tell her what to do are long past," Ken answers. He appears pensive, but composed.

It does sound like Persis, little as I know about her.

"And is Selina with her?" I ask, desperately trying to keep my voice oh so casual.

Something flits across Ken's face. Something I can't quite place.

"No, Selina didn't make the trip. It would have been surprising if she had, seeing as she is getting married in January," he explains, matter-of-fact.

For a moment I am thunderstruck.

 _What_?

"But… but…" I stammer, "Tell me if I'm wrong, but…"

Ken smiles as he notices my confusion, but it's a kind smile. "You aren't wrong. She was engaged to me and now she's marrying someone else," he clarifies.

"Alright. Or – _not_ alright?" I look at him, feeling helpless. "When did this happen anyway?"

"In the summer," Ken answers calmly.

And he's telling me _now_?

"And… _what_ happened?" I continue my line of questioning before I notice how bold it sounds. "If you want to tell me," I quickly amend.

"It's an old tale, to be honest. She fell in love with one of the patients in the hospital she was visiting and now she's going to marry him," Ken explains with a shrug.

Somehow, I still can't grasp this. "And what about you?" I want to know.

"She asked me to release her from her promise and I did," he replies.

"Just like _that_?" I stare at him, incredulous.

Ken nods. "Yes," he confirms, "Just like that."

It takes me some moments to consider this new piece of information. Silently I turn it around in my mind, before I feel a long dormant emotion stirring, sniffing at the air. Anger.

"But that's not right!" I exclaim. "She can't just leave you when you're out here, fighting a war."

Ken doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he laughs softly. As I glare at him in return, he raises a soothing hand.

"Your worry for my well-being honours me," he assures. "But you must believe me when I tell you that it's alright. It's truly alright."

"How can it be?" I want to know. I am vaguely aware that it's not very polite but who ever got anywhere by being polite?

Ken looks down at his blanket thoughtfully, seems to collect his thoughts. When he answers, his words are evidently carefully chosen. "Selina was only Persis' best friend to me for a long time – Persis pretty, sweet best friend. I was aware of her crush on me, but it took until 1913 for me to really notice her. I got to know her better and found myself caring for her. We were engaged in 1914, not long before the war began. I never would have asked Selina to be my wife if I had not cared for her. I know that that's no stipulation for marriage for some people, but for me it is."

I nod. So far, none of this is really news to me.

"The wedding date was set for the spring of 1915. Her parents wanted us to wait until she had turned twenty-one and there was no reason not to," Ken continues. "When war began, everyone still thought I'd be back home by Christmas. Even then, I had an inkling that it might last longer, but I never would have dreamed of still being over here three Christmases later. Which is, incidentally, the deciding factor with Selina and me. _Time_."

"Time, then," I prompt as he pauses. I'm beginning to think I know where this is heading.

"Time," Ken nods. "Back in 1914, Selina and I were well-suited. Had we gotten married as planned, without there ever being a war, I'm sure we would have been happy together. But there _is_ a war and after more than three years, we aren't who we were in 1914. Or rather – I'm not. Selina is still as kind and gracious as she always was. Her husband-to-be? He was blinded in a gas attack. For her, that's no reason not to marry him. That's the kind of person she is and always has been. But I am not the same man I was before the war. And, if I am being honest, I had already been suspecting for a while that I am not the man to make Selina happy anymore – and she not the right woman for me."

He turns his head, looks at me directly. For a moment or two, I hold his gaze before I turn away. "But you didn't leave her," I point out, because I feel I should say something.

"How could I have, after she had already spent three years waiting for me?" Ken counters. "I had a duty to her and yes, I would have married her, even against my better judgement. When her letter came – well, I can tell you the truth, can't I? I was sorry because it reminded me of everything we could have had and of the future we lost. But more than that, I was relieved. Which is partly your fault, by the way."

" _My_ fault?" I interrupt, stunned. "What do I have to do with any of it?"

Ken smiles at my outrage, but is also quick to raise a hand to placate me. "Here, let me explain please," he asks. "See, the thing is, I had gotten so used to playing a part for my family. You know how it is – you never write down the whole truth in those letters, only ever a shortened, prettified version of it. My parents, Persis, Selina – I didn't want them to worry and therefore could never be honest with them. And then you traipsed into my life and I never had to lie to _you_. You understand, and I suddenly realized how good it felt to be able to tell the truth. But afterwards, I started struggling with those tame letters home. I sat in my dugout and tried to write and found myself wanting to talk to you instead. That's why I decided not to come and see you anymore back in May. It didn't – well, it didn't feel _right_ , under the circumstances."

I look at him, surprised. I had put his absence down to his other commitments. Never would I have thought that it was a conscious decision to stay away. And his reasoning astounds me most of all.

"You see," Ken adds with a tiny smile, "I sincerely wish Selina all the best in the world. And yes, I am a little sad, for the sake of the future we could have had, had things been different. But everything considered, I have to admit that my mother has been right once again. Happiness does indeed lurk where you least expect it."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Never mind!' from 1913 (lyrics and music by Harry Dent and Tom Goldburn)._

 _Borden is Sir Robert Laird Borden (1854-1937), who served as eighth Prime Minister of Canada from 1911 to 1920. From 1901 to 1920 he was leader of the conservative party. During the war he was instrumental in the introduction of conscription to Canada, which was considered controversial especially in Quebec. The question of conscription was the deciding issue of the 1917 general election, which Borden won with a high percentage._

 _Laurier is Sir Henri Charles Wilfrid Laurier (1841-1919), who served as seventh Prime Minister of Canada from 1896 to 1911. From 1887 to his death he was leader of the liberal party. When he was Prime Minister he conducted controversial talks about trade reciprocity with the United States. During the 1917 election, he and his liberals positioned themselves against conscription which was a deciding factor in their loss._

 _General Currie is Sir Arthur William Currie (1875-1933), who was the first Canadian to command the Canadian Corps from 1917 to the end of the war. From 1914 to 1915 he was commander of the 2_ _nd_ _Canadian Brigade, rising to command the 1_ _st_ _Canadian Division from 1915 to 1917. He was and is regarded as one of the best military commanders on the Western Front and played an instrumental role in many of the Canadian's victories._

 _General Byng is Julian Hedworth George Byng, 1_ _st_ _Viscount Byng of Vimy (1862-1935), an English general who was commander of the Canadian Corps from 1916 to 1917, also leading them at the Battle of Vimy Ridge. He was promoted to command the 3_ _rd_ _British Army until the end of the war. Ennobled as a Baron in 1919, he served as the 12_ _th_ _Governor General to Canada. He was created a Viscount in 1928 and promoted to Field Marshall in 1932._


	34. And a white moon beams

_December 26_ _th_ _, 1917_ _ **  
**_ _No. 7 Canadian Stationary Hospital, Arques, France_

 **And a white moon beams**

"Do you know that I have no idea when I last ate Susan's monkey-face cookies?" Ken informs me thoughtfully, eyeing the cookie in his hand before biting off one monkey ear. Chewing, he adds, "It's almost like it was in the old times – save for this frightful howling!"

I turn my head slightly to look at him while still keeping an eye on the stage. We're sitting in the newly erected recreation hut and up front a stage troupe is regaling us with sketches and songs. One of the men is dressed in women's clothing, including a lacy red evening dress and elaborate face paint, and is currently serenading another man in uniform by singing a love song in a rather high-pitched voice.

" _I_ think it's funny," I counter. Sure, it's foolish, but a little foolishness has never gone amiss, especially not in a hospital at Christmas.

Ken looks at me skeptically before turning back toward the stage with a frown. The man in the dress has sat down on the lap of the man in uniform and is now apparently trying to steal a kiss, which the object of his desire is doing his utmost to prevent. Our patients, sitting in long rows facing the stage, are roaring with laughter.

Shaking his head at such horseplay, Ken takes another bite from his cookie. "Please relay my heartfelt gratitude to Susan and whoever else is responsible for all these culinary delicacies, will you?" he asks.

"They're certainly much nicer than eel," I agree and feel myself shudder involuntarily at the thought of what was served to us for supper on last night's Christmas Day.

My reaction garners me a quizzical look from Ken. "Eel?" he wonders.

But I just wave his query aside. It's not all that interesting, to be honest. I halfway expect him to persist anyway, but the man-woman on the stage takes this very moment to attempt a _very_ high tune which turns out to be so shrill that Ken grimaces as if in pain.

I laugh mercilessly at his suffering causing him to glare at me, which just makes me laugh all the more.

"Our culinary care can reasonably be considered teamwork", I then take up our earlier thread of conversation, if only to push the thought of eel far from my mind.

As they already did last year, my family has worked sheer miracles to provide me with all kind of delicacies for Christmas. Susan sent monkeyface and butterscotch cookies and Mum a plump fruit cake. There was gingerbread from Faith which is so delicious that I suspect Una of having had a hand in it. Una herself sent shortbread, and from Toronto there were lots of bonbons and sweets which I'm also fairly sure to be more Mildred's work than Di's. Even Nan did some baking, which makes me feel relieved enough not to mind that the result of it are oatcakes. Pragmatic oatcakes were likely all she was capable of as yet.

At any rate, I received enough generously filled packages in the days before Christmas that it would have been quite impossible for me to eat all of them on my own. So, in the grand tradition of last year, I shared most of it with patients and colleagues. Due to there being that big Christmas Day supper last night, I kept most of the delicacies from home to enhance today's Boxing Day concert. At home, they're perfectly aware of my sharing, of course. And seeing as I'm definitely not the only one in this hospital to receive packages from home, we've managed to put together quite the feast.

I take a bite from my gingerbread and turn my gaze back to the stage. The man-woman was seen off by enthusiastic trampling just moments ago, and just now there's a man playing the piano. From one side of the stage, a – a _thing_ nears, looking absurd enough for me to entirely forget what I intended to say.

"What _is_ that?" I ask of Ken instead, starring incredulously at the _thing_ , the gingerbread in my hand momentarily forgotten. Naked male legs disappear into what looks like an oversized dust mop, hiding both head and body of the man inside it. Only one arm is extended high into the air, the hand forming what might be an animal's head, now tapping insistently against the pianist's shoulder.

Ken grins. "An ostrich", he informs me.

Shaking my head, I gaze at the 'ostrich', now striding over the stage with exaggerated movements while fleeing from the pianist, its 'head' jerking in time to its steps. "Crazy," I murmur, but can't quite help a smile.

"Well, they're certainly making an effort," Ken allows with a shrug.

"And the audience loves it," I point out, nodding towards crowd made up from patients and personnel alike. They all clearly love this particular skit.

The pianist, meanwhile, has given up on chasing the ostrich and is back at his piano. Accompanied by an accordion, he plays a jaunty little tune. The ostrich is dancing.

"It reminds me of the performances over at Talbot House," Ken interjects pensively.

I raise my eyebrows at him in question.

"Talbot House is a rest home for soldiers, over in Poperinghe," Ken explains readily. "Reverend Clayton – affectionately called _Tubby_ by the men – opened it two years ago. It's an Every Man's Club, meaning that everyone is welcome, regardless of rank or religion. It is a place where a Protestant officer can have tea with a Catholic private and an NCO who doesn't believe in anything anymore. I've always liked going there whenever I was in Flanders. They hold concerts, show moving pictures, organize readings and lectures and discussions, but you can also just spend a quiet hour in the garden to read and write letters."

"It sounds similar to a club some of the patients have told me about," I remark frowning as I search for the name. " _Toc H_ was it called?"

"Same place," Ken replies with a smile. "You know about how soldiers always need to shorten everything? Well, Talbot House became TH and that was turned into Toc H, using the letters of the signals spelling alphabet."

I nod slowly, glancing back at the stage for a moment, where the ostrich is now taking its bows amidst the cheering of the crowd. "The patients sometimes talked about 'The Upper Room' of Toc H," I continue, "Though always in such conspiratorial tones that I never quite dared ask what's actually in that room…"

Now Ken's truly laughing. "Entirely harmless, I promise you! I mean, sure, Pop is filled with lot of distractions of the, well, _debauched_ kind, if one cares to look for them – and sometimes when one's not looking at all. But Reverend Clayton remains a reverend. You don't have to believe in anything to set foot into Talbot House, but it does adhere to certain moral standards, specifically to set it apart from other establishments in Poperinghe. The Upper Room is a chapel. A very pretty chapel at that – I've always liked going up and staying a while."

"Really?" I ask, surprised. We've never really talked about God and faith before, but from what I gathered, I had him marked as being a sceptic at best.

"I don't pray, if that's what you're asking. I've long since stopped believing in prayers," Ken answers calmly. "But only because I no longer believe in God the Father up on high and that he can absolve me of anything, doesn't mean that I don't believe in anything at all anymore."

He leans in a little and his gaze is firm and unwavering and I'm sure he has said so much _more_ than the words themselves expressed, without quite being able to tell what it is. In truth, there are moments in which he still confuses me.

Because if, deep down, I had a tentative hope that our conversation about Selina's impending wedding might yet open the path to _something_ , that hope remained unfulfilled. A month has passed since then in which I have spent almost all of my free time with him. And that's _nice_ , of course it is, but 'nice' would have been enough to have me finally bury all my hopes, if not…

If not for these tiny moments in which he gazes at me a fraction too long, lets go of my hand a little too slowly, and says things that can be understood _this_ way or another. Moments like this one.

Abruptly, I turn my head away.

The audience surrounding us has burst into a rousing rendition of _It's a long way to Tipperary_. Or rather – it _sounds_ like Tipperary, but on closer inspection, the lyrics appear to be quite different.

 _That's the wrong way to tickle Mary,_  
 _That's the wrong way to kiss!_  
 _Don't you know that over here, lad,_  
 _They like it best like this!_  
 _Hooray pour le Francais!_  
 _Farewell, Angleterre!_  
 _We didn't know the way to tickle Mary,_  
 _But we learned how, over there_

Somewhat despite myself, I start giggling quietly at the utter absurdness of it. I'm vaguely aware that these lyrics would have had me blushing furiously a mere two years ago, especially in presence of Ken Ford. That I can laugh at them now is just more proof of how far I have come ever since that ship carried me away from Canada.

Ken has straightened again and chuckles quietly to himself at this particular vocal performance. If I am entirely honest, I'm rather grateful that the strange moment between us has passed. He confuses me and I don't like being confused.

The song comes to an end and a clown with his face painted white jumps up on the stage. As he raises his arms dramatically, Ken bends closer to me once more. "Do you suppose the nurse within you would allow us to go outside for a moment? I need air," he asks quietly so as not to disturb the clown's performance.

My gaze travels to the hut's exit. "It's cold outside," I argue.

"Just a few minutes," Ken counters.

I'm still doubtful about this, but I suppose a few minutes haven't killed anyone yet. I nod, a little hesitatingly, but it's all the confirmation he needs. He turns around his wheelchair with some force, causing it to protest at being mishandled thus by squeaking loudly.

The wound is healing nicely, but Ken's leg is still far too weak for him to put weight on it yet. This is why, much to his chagrin, he is forced to use the wheelchair to move around at all. He's handling it skillfully though, so I have to hurry to follow him from the hut.

Outside, it's quiet. The air is cold and crisp. There's snow on the ground, but the night is clear. A bright moon shines down upon us.

Ken has stopped, his gaze raised to the sky, which gives me the opportunity to place a blanket over his shoulder, before I put on my own coat. I can see him smile at my ministrations, but he does pull the blanket tighter around himself.

When he starts moving again the snow makes it a tedious task for him, but I know better than to intervene. It will be a while yet before he can start walking again and until then it's important for him to know that he can move without help, if tied to his wheelchair. So I just keep in step with him while we circle around the garden of the chateau.

Some minutes pass in silence, both of us enjoying the quiet winter night. When I notice Ken's arms moving more sluggishly and the wheelchair moving slower, I discreetly steer us towards a stone bench next to a wall. I wipe some snow from the bench and sit down, snuggling deeper into my coat. Ken has turned his wheelchair so that we are facing each other.

"Doctor Murray has informed me that I am being sent to England with the next transport," he suddenly says.

I incline my head slightly. He has told me as well, only this morning. I just didn't know how to broach the subject.

"It was a question of 'when' rather than 'if' they were going to send you to England," I explain. "Up until now, we could treat you as well as they could have done there, but you're approaching a point when your leg will have to be mobilized again. I have picked up some techniques over the years, so we've been able to do some work already, but in England they have specialists for massaging and physiotherapy and they're much better than I will ever be."

If we're being honest, he has been here far too long. It's been almost two months since he was admitted. That's an unnaturally long stay in France for a case such as him, who'll need months of treatment before anyone could even think of sending him back into the trenches.

Sure, we have the space. As it has done every year, winter has brought a lull in fighting. The last proper offensive, near Cambrai, came to a halt three weeks ago, after a German counterattack had re-taken part of the land previously captured by the English. Ever since, it's been fairly quiet and that is never more evident than in our hospital. Out of 400 beds, only about 150 are occupied.

Still, there must have been someone actively preventing Ken's earlier transferal to England and who else could it have been but Zachary? For whatever reasons.

We've managed surprisingly well, Zachary and I, to find a way to work together. And, as paradoxical as it may sound, I think Ken's injury has helped us in this. It was the two of us, more than anyone else, who were responsible for making his treatment work. We had to work together to do it, whether we wanted to or not. And yet, our contact remains strictly limited to our work on the ward and I guess I have to respect that. As much as I want to ask what his reasons were for keeping Ken here, I know it is not my place to approach him.

Turning back towards Ken, I shake off the thought of Zachary. Ken, I notice, is watching me attentively.

"Maud – that is, Miss Johnston, the night sister – suggested that I… well, that I could ask for leave," I tell him, suddenly feeling shy. "I could accompany you to England and make sure you're settling in alright. You won't have to worry about me hovering above your bed the entire time, of course. I want to see Walter and Jem as well and maybe see a bit of England, finally. It's just… yes, that was the thought." I realize I'm babbling and I'm fairly sure that only the dark of the night hides my blush.

Ken, in turn, is very calm. "Miss Johnston is a clever woman with excellent ideas," he replies easily. "But you should hurry in asking for leave. According to Doctor Murray the next transport will leave in three or four days already."

I let go of a breath I have been holding. But as I consider his words, I find myself frowning. It takes a moment for me to realize what it was that I stumbled over, but when I do… "What's all this with 'Doctor Murray' anyway?" I demand to know. "It's the same with Zachary. A few weeks ago, you were both basically choking on each other's names and now it's 'Doctor Murray' here and 'Major Ford' there!"

Ken smirks. "We had a talk, Doctor Murray and I", he answers. "To my surprise he has shown himself to be a good fellow. He has… honour, or something. And I still owe him more than I'd like to admit, so a little bit of gratefulness might be in order, don't you think?"

"You haven't shown much gratefulness to _me_ yet," I point out, a little challenging, but mostly to move this conversation away from Zachary once more. I give Ken a little smile to show that I'm not angry in earnest, but his face turns serious all of a sudden.

"I know very well what you did for me," he replies quietly, "And I'm not only talking about the leg."

And there it is again, the look in his eyes that makes me feel hopelessly lost each and every time.

"I have something for you. A Christmas present, if you will," he adds.

A nervous laugh escapes me. "You shouldn't have… there was no need for you to get me anything," I protest weakly.

Ken shrugs. "I know. But I wanted to."

"I have nothing to give to you," I admit, feeling a little embarrassed.

For a moment, he gazes at me. Then, cryptically, "We'll see about that."

His eyes seek permission and as I nod slightly, he takes my hand in his. A moment later, I feel a small object in the palm of my hand. As I look down, my heart skips a beat, only to carry on beating twice as fast.

It's a ring.

"This is a Claddagh ring," Ken explains softly. "Do you see this? The crown symbolises loyalty, the hands friendship and the heart – well, I think you know what the heart stands for."

I nod mutely. I don't dare look at him, so I gaze down at the ring, lying so innocently in my open hand. It is golden, showing a crowned heart being held by a pair of hands. As the moonlight shines upon it, it shimmers gently.

"These rings were first forged in the area around the Irish city of Galway," Ken quietly continues. "Tradition has it that the ring is worn with the heart pointing towards the fingertip of the wearer if her heart is not yet spoken for. Has she given her heart away, the ring is turned and the heart points inwards, down to the wrist."

He touches the tiny heart with the tip of his own finger. I keep my gaze lowered, hardly daring to breathe.

"I cannot tell you who first wore this particular ring," Ken admits. "What I do know, however, is that my great-grandmother was born near Galway and she wore this ring once. She married an Englishman named Leigh, but both died before their time. It was their daughter who brought this ring to Canada, as a memento to her mother. This daughter was Persis Selwyn and she was the first bride of the House of Dreams. When her eldest daughter went to Toronto to marry, her mother gave her the ring. Alice Ford had no daughter of her own, so she passed on the ring to her eldest son shortly before her death – my father. She asked him to present it to the woman who would have been a daughter to her."

"Your mother," I murmur.

Ken nods slightly. "My mother. He gave her this ring as a sign of his friendship. He couldn't promise her anything else, because they still thought her married to another man then. You know the tale. With time, other rings joined this one – rings that the world prescribes more significance to – but my mother has always held this ring in special regard. On the evening before I left Toronto, she came to see me and gave me the ring so I could take it to Europe as a memory to home. And now I want to give it to you."

"I couldn't possibly accept this," I whisper, still looking down at the ring, an almost imperceptible weight in my hand that _means_ so much more.

"I want you to have it." Ken, too, is speaking quietly, but there is no doubt in his voice.

I raise my head, look at him for what feels like the first time. "As a sign of your friendship?" I ask, my voice barely audible.

"My friendship you will always have. Beyond that… this ring can mean anything you want it to mean," Ken replies calmly. His gaze is tender and my heart jumps a little.

Then he clears his throat and for the first time, I realize that he, too, is nervous. "I don't know whether it will be granted to me to spend the last years of my life sitting at home, in front of a hearth, surrounded by my children and grandchildren. I can _see_ it, clear as day, but there's no knowing if it will ever become reality. What I do know, however, is that I want to spend the rest of my life, be it six months or sixty years, with no one but you."

For several moments, I silently study Ken's face. The war has left its traces there. He looks older than a mere twenty-seven. There are lines on his forehead and around his eyes. The small strands of silver in his hair glint in the moonlight. His eyes, too, are still those of a man who has seen too much. But there's something new in their depths – something that wasn't there before. A light, shining from deep within. Hope.

And then, suddenly, I see it as well, the picture he has painted. A house – no, a _home_. A crackling fire, a purring cat, the laughter of children. And Ken, more lines in his face, more silver in his hair, but with the eyes of someone who has found his peace.

This is what I want.

The desire is so strong that it takes my breath away. There's a lump in my throat and a burning behind my eyes. My hands are shaking.

And the entire time, Ken's eyes have not once wavered from my face. "May I?" he asks gently. He is smiling.

I nod slightly, then watch silently as he places the ring on my finger. The ring with its long tale, to which we have now added another chapter. It is a little too big for me, but I still have time to grow into this, after all.

Ken holds my hand with his, his thumb tracing the ring. The heart points inwards.

Slowly, a little hesitantly, I raise my head, but as our eyes meet, my nervousness disappears in an instant.

"See? Now you've given me the best present of all," Ken murmurs.

Then he kisses me and the kiss – a gentle, loving, meaningful kiss – feels like a promise.

And as I sit there, bathed in the moonlight of a cold winter night, Ken's arms around me, his lips on mine, I send a silent prayer into the night sky. For if there truly is a God watching above us and if he feels even some pity with us small humans, I pray that he will bring him back to me.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'There's a Long Long Trail A-Winding' from 1914 (lyrics by Stoddard King, music by Alonzo Elliott)._

 _The song 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' is from 1912 (lyrics and music by Jack Judge). During the Great War, a more risky version of the lyrics was sung by the soldiers, called 'That's the wrong way to tickle Mary' (source unknown)._


	35. Smile, boys, that's the style

_January 7_ _th_ _, 1918_ _ **  
**_ _Imperial_ _Order_ _Daughters of the Empire Canadian Red Cross Hospital for Officers, London, England_

 **Smile, boys, that's the style**

"Will you keep still already!" I chide Ken and lightly smack his knee. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him rolling his own eyes, grinning, but he does lie back again to rest against the headboard of the bed.

"Has she always been this bossy?" another voice enquires behind me. Another, oh-so-familiar voice.

Jem.

I turn around quickly.

And yes, it's my big brother, casually leaning against the doorframe and grinning widely at me. As I jump to my feet, I push over the stool I had been sitting on in my hurry to get to him. Laughing, he catches me, lifts me a few inches of the ground and whirls both of us around. When he sets me down again, I beam up at him.

The longest time I went without seeing Walter was a year. One and a half years with Shirley. Jem though… he left in August of 1914 and it's January 1918 now. That's three and a half years. _Three and a half years_!

For several seconds, I study his face. He looks older, more tired, as we all do. There are lines on his face and shadows under his eyes and grey stubble covering his chin. He's thinner, too. Probably a last residue of his illness. Four months of English weather have also robbed him of his Mediterranean tan. But there's a familiar glint in his eyes, so very _Jem_ , that it calms my heart. He's still himself.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. I hardly dare take my eyes off of him.

"Well, you see, when we heard that you were in London, we expected you to come and see us. But once it became apparent that the mountain wouldn't come to Mohammed, we decided to travel to the mountain instead," Jem explains, still grinning.

"Who are you calling a –," I start, before interrupting myself.

Wait a minute. _We_?

A small cough pulls my gaze to the side and there, half hidden by Jem's figure, is Walter, watching us with an amused smile. He opens his arms to me and after Jem has let me go, I embrace my second brother as well, hold him very, very tight for a long moment. I can feel Walter laugh softly before he presses a kiss to my forehead.

When, after several seconds, I step back again, I can't help a quick glance into the corridor behind Walter, despite really knowing better.

Jem doesn't miss it. "Regretfully, you will have to contend yourself with us," he informs me, raising both eyebrows so high that they almost disappear into his hairline.

"I know. And you're more than enough," I assert. „Besides, Shirley is somewhere near Lens and Carl is still stuck in his submarine. It was just a spot of wishful thinking, is all." I give a slight shrug.

Jerry's name hangs between us for a moment, unspoken but almost palpable.

"Didn't Carl get transferred last month?" Walter quickly asks, probably for this very reason.

I pull a grimace as I answer, "From one submarine into another." I still think he must be clean mad to voluntarily set foot in these devil's contraptions.

Ken takes this moment to call over from his bed. "I don't know whether your sister's always been this bossy, but I can attest to the fact the she is certainly bossy _now_ ," he remarks with a little smile in my direction. "And as I am under her strict orders not to get up under any circumstances, do you think you might be so kind as to come a bit closer?"

"Of course," Walter assures immediately, "Sorry for that." He even seems to mean it.

Jem, however, just gives me a smirking side-glance. I _think_ I hear him murmur the word 'bossy' but resolve to disregard his impertinence.

Once we have reached Ken's bed, Jem's attention is successfully diverted anyway. He bends closer to the wound on Ken's leg which I was just in the process of re-dressing before they entered. "What a nasty beast!" he murmurs and whistles softly.

"Oh, you can say that again!" I confirm as I come to stand beside him. "Look, the shrapnel wound was here. Gas gangrene set in, beginning here and here. We cut away tissue in this area and over here." I move my hand along the leg to illustrate my explanation.

After two months of healing, the wound looks so much better already that it is a testament to Jem's experience how quickly he recognized its severity. The two debridements were followed by other operations, during which the thigh, which had gaped open completely at one point, had been sorted and closed. Now there's little left on the surface but a scar, but it's still so fresh that we keep it dressed, just to be safe.

Jem leans a little closer, frowning. "It does surprise me that they didn't decide to amputate," he remarks. "Gas gangrene wasn't our main problem back in Greece – too dry – but ever since I've come here, I've seen my share of cases. And I have to say, a shrapnel wound this high up on the leg… the organs aren't far at all."

"The doctors… considered doing an amputation. But we decided on debridement and Carrel-Dakin instead. It was a risk, but it paid off," I reply cautiously. I try not to let it show that Jem has just put into words what I was afraid of for so long.

Still frowning, Jem nods, his gaze firmly fixed on the wound. He looks as if he wants to ask even more, just as Ken interjects, "Don't mind me, you know. I'm perfectly happy to be your little case study." But there's a glint in his eyes and his voice is decidedly amused.

Jem straightens. "Ah, sorry, old boy. Comes with the profession, I'm afraid," he apologises, clapping Ken on the back. Then he retrieves the fallen stool and sits down upon it. Walter has already pulled up a chair for himself during our examination. I, on the other hand, walk over to the other side of the room to disinfect my hands once more.

Ken just brushes Jem's apology aside. "By the way, Rilla is being modest for once," he points out instead. "The doctors over in France really did want to amputate. She convinced them not to."

And once more, Jem's eyebrows rise to meet his hairline. " _You_?" he asks as he turns to me, obviously taken completely by surprise.

I just roll my eyes and continue disinfecting my hands, shaking my head slightly. I'm not going to dignify _that_ with an answer.

"One of the doctors over there had a bit of a soft spot for Rilla," Ken explains instead. It seems to amuse him. My glare, at any rate, he meets with a relaxed smile.

" _Really_?" There's hardly any less scepticism sounding from Jem's voice than was infused in his last question. Apparently, he not only doesn't trust me to have any kind of influence in my role as nurse, but also thinks it highly unlikely that any man could ever take an interest in me.

I move my glare from Ken to Jem without pause. "Yes, _really_ ," I inform him haughtily. "And before you ask – had I _wanted_ to marry him, I could have done so. Can we change the subject now?" I shake my out my hands, maybe a little more forcefully than necessary.

As I do, I risk a quick glance at Ken. He seems surprised, even a little thoughtful. I don't think he realised quite _how_ clear Zachary made his affections for me. Good. Serves him right!

"Aren't you a bit young to think about getting married?" Jem asks. He's back to frowning.

I give a frustrated sigh. "It might come as a surprise to you, but I didn't _stay_ nineteen just because I was that age when you last saw me. I'll be twenty-three in summer, making me older than Faith was when you two got married," I remind him and can't help my voice from sounding a little waspish. It annoys me that he obviously still thinks me a little girl.

Without looking at anyone I brush past Jem and bend over Ken's wound once more to finally dress it. With practiced ease I apply disinfectants before putting on the dressing. I'm aware of Jem's eyes following my movements but keep my own gaze firmly on my work.

"Good job," he comments as I take a step back. I raise my head to look at him and see an apologetic smile.

I recognise an offer of peace when I see one. Thus, after allowing myself a moment of hesitation, I nod slowly, but make sure to accompany it with a deep sigh. I don't want him to think he's too easily forgiven.

If Jem notices, he doesn't show – probably doesn't _care_. Instead, he gives me a jaunty grin before turning to Walter. "You're awfully quiet, little brother," he points out cheerfully.

He's right. Walter hasn't said a single word in the past few minutes. I try to catch his eye, but he lowers his head, looks down at his hands.

"Come on, tell us what's the matter;" Jem demands, giving him a shove with his elbow that couldn't possibly be called gentle.

While Walter is apparently searching for words – an unusual occurrence in itself – I take the moment to pull the blanket back over Ken's leg. His pyjama bottoms are hanging over the end of his bed, but he can't move well enough yet to put them on unaided. And while he suffered Jem's examination quite good-naturedly, I can't imagine he'd feel comfortable having my brothers watch him needing help in doing something as banal as getting dressed.

As I sit down on the edge of his bed, I can feel Ken touch my hand briefly, without even taking his eyes off of Walter. And yet, it's enough to tell me that he noticed and is grateful.

Meanwhile, Walter has found words, at least a few of them. "See, I don't want to… I understand it's part of the work, but… I mean, do you really consider this… well, _appropriate_?" he stammers. The tips of his ears have a decidedly pink colour to them.

Still, he might as well be talking some exotic language for all I have understood about what he's trying to say. I exchange a glance with Jem, but he, too, just shrugs helplessly before turning to look at Walter owlishly.

Only Ken suddenly starts laughing softly. "I'm sorry to tell you, but this is nothing out of the ordinary for these two here. You're going to have to spell it out to them," he informs Walter.

Spell out _what_?

Walter's ears turn a darker red, but he doesn't say a single word. Even as Jem gives him another encouraging shove, he only stares down at his hands.

In the end it's Ken who delivers him from his misery. "Walter here is wondering if it's appropriate for you to be treating patients as lightly-clad as I am currently," he explains to me, sounding rather cheerful.

For a moment, no one says a thing, then Jem, ever merciless, bursts out laughing. "Walter, Walter," he manages through his laughs, "Not even war can corrupt you, can it?" He claps Walter's back hard enough for him to sink down several inches.

I bite my lip and make very sure to look at neither Jem nor Ken. Walter, on whom my gaze settles quite naturally, looks so uncomfortable that I feel sympathy rising within me.

Jem, however, isn't finished by far. "She's a _nurse_ , little brother. I bet that if she had a shilling for every stark naked man she's treated, she's be richer than Ford here by now. Who, all things considered, isn't so very undressed at all in his shirt and drawers."

Now he's got me feeling uncomfortable as well. He's right, but… did he have to put it quite so blatantly?

I don't dare look at Ken. To tell him that he wasn't the first man to propose to me is one thing. To tell him that I've seen countless of other men in various stages of undress is quite another.

Just as I consider getting up to bring some distance between this _situation_ and me, I feel Ken's hand on my arm. A quick glance tells me that he's still looking at my brothers, but as is fingers gently close around my wrist for a second or two, I feel myself calming. Maybe he has seen enough to understand.

"Haven't you been posted to a hospital for a year now?" Jem wants to know of Walter. "Shouldn't you know better by now?" He's not laughing anymore, but there's still an amused spark in his eyes.

"I do, I think," Walter replies hesitatingly. "It's only… it's different when it's your own sister. Please don't get me wrong, Rilla-my-Rilla, I have the utmost respect before the work you do, but… I still think that this awful war is no place for women."

I nod slowly. "It's alright."

The truth is that, had anyone else said that, I would have been highly insulted at what I would have considered an attack on the worthiness of my work. It's different with Walter though. I know for a fact that he'd never doubt me. But he, more than the rest of us, still believes that an idealised version of this world is achievable. It's the loss of innocence – _my_ innocence in this case – that eats away at him.

"If it helps any," I add with a lopsided smile, "They look after us quite well. Too well, sometimes. When I was in Flanders, they hardly ever let us leave the CCS."

"And right they were! Poperinghe is no place for a woman, or shouldn't be, at any rate. When I think of these poor Belgian refugee girls –" Abruptly, Walter breaks off.

I notice Ken and Jem exchanging a glance. I have a suspicious about Walter was going to say and couldn't. But I don't ask. Last traces of innocence, I suppose.

"Or that father, making a spectacle of his daughter to get more customers to visit his café," Walter adds, sighing softly. The thought appears to sadden him.

When he doesn't move to explain what or who he's talking about, Jem directs a quizzical look at Ken. It surprises me for a second before I remember that Jem has never been to Flanders. After six months in France he was sent out to the Mediterranean immediately.

It's a little strange, to think that for all his own experiences of this war, he has never seen the place that has shaped the rest of us so profoundly.

"There's a café right at the main square of Poperinghe. _A la Poupée_ ," Ken explains. "It is only open to officers and one of the best places to get a varied selection of spirits. Apart from that, it is well-known because of the owner's daughters. Now, I've never heard so much as a rumour than any of them ever did anything more than to serves tea and champagne, but the youngest of them is an especial favourite with the officers. I've seen grown men squabble over her photograph. _Ginger,_ they call her, and the café _Ginger's_. I don't think I've ever heard her real name, but I haven't been there all that often."

"Eliane," Walter interjects, "Eliane Cossey."

Jem's eyebrows rise. "Pretty?" I notice that he directs the question only at Ken, as if he doesn't expect a proper answer from Walter on this particular subject.

"I suppose so," Ken answers thoughtfully, "But still a child, if we're being honest. Fourteen or fifteen, maybe. I understand what Walter is saying."

If Walter himself had meant to add anything else, he is prevented by a knock. Seconds later, the door opens and Frances Thompson, the sister on duty, sticks her head in.

"Everything alright?" she queries.

I nod. "Yes, thank you, Frances."

Frances smiles and takes two steps into the room to hand a folded piece of paper to Walter. With a nod of her head she prompts him to give it to Ken.

She just moves to leave the room once more, as Jem addresses her. "Are you the ward sister? Shouldn't you be treating the patients, instead of allowing Rilla to do it?" He smirks brazenly and tips his stool back so that it balances on just two legs.

I almost wish for it to slide away beneath him.

Thankfully, Frances just laughs easily. I know her from my time in Montreal where we both worked in the Royal Victoria Hospital. Even then, she was already quite unflappable.

"You know, I did try that in the beginning," she informs Jem. "But after I did one dressing with her hovering behind me, watching me with eagle eyes, I decided it was best for all involved just to let her do it outright. After all, we all have a favourite patient once in a while that we don't trust anyone else with. Isn't that right, Rilla?" She winks at me and laughs at the dark look I give her in return.

Jem turns back around and I detect surprise and something akin to suspicion as his gaze moves from me to Ken. He opens his mouth to say something – and without a doubt it would have been something insolent – but Walter, bless his soul, beats him to it.

"How many patients do you treat in this hospital, Sister?" he enquires politely.

"We have fifteen beds on the big ward and then four smaller rooms like this one for another ten patients," Frances answers good-naturedly. "We're just a small hospital, and we only admit officers."

"Neatly explaining how fancy-schmancy it is in here," Jem interjects, still balancing on his stool.

He's not even wrong. When it comes to sheer elegance, the _Imperial_ _Order_ _Daughters of the Empire Canadian Red Cross Hospital for Officers_ , which is its official mouthful of a name, eclipses all other hospitals I have ever seen. It occupies a grand white town house on the edge of Hyde Park, which the windows of almost all wards overlook, and was financed and furnished by a rich family from Toronto with the specification that it be open solely to officer patients – and it shows! The wards are arranged similarly, all having lavender grey walls and furniture in white with grey accents, and grey bedside mats with a pattern of roses. I've seen many a hotel less _chic_ than this hospital is.

The work, too, is a world away from what we're doing over in France. There are a mere five patients to a sister and the sisters seem to split their time equally between treating patients and organizing tea parties. Some days ago, on New Year's Eve, they even had a fancy dress masquerade ball. To be fair, they did invite me to partake in it, but I preferred to spend the evening with Ken who was still exhausted from the journey. Frances also told me that they had only had half a dozen deaths in almost two years – back in Flanders, I often had as many men die beneath my hands in a couple of hours.

"A hospital doesn't have to be a depressing place by definition," Frances cheerfully points out to Jem, before turning around with a shrug and a smile, and closing the door begin her.

With a thudding sound, Jem rights his stool again. "Pretty," he comments and he's certainly not talking about the design scheme of the hospital.

I roll my eyes and have to giggle as I notice Walter doing the same. Ken grins. The piece of paper that Frances brought in for him lies in his lap and I just want to ask if it was anything important, but Jem is quicker.

"Gasper?" He offers us a package of Woodbine cigarettes. _Gasper_ is officer speak for a cigarette. The normal soldiers usually call it a _fag_.

That Walter shakes his head Jem accepts calmly, but when Ken declines as well, he raises an eyebrow quizzically. "I knew those two didn't smoke, but since when have you joined the non-smokers, Ford?" he enquires as he lights as cigarette for himself.

Ken shrugs slightly. "'Non-smoker' is an exaggeration," he amends, "But someone once told me that it can't be all that good for your health. And besides, your sister doesn't like the smell." I lower my head and bite back a smile.

"And that's a reason not to smoke?" Jem asks, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. He appears honestly surprised at the notion.

Walter, once more rolling his eyes at Jem, chooses this moment to change the subject though. "May we ask what was in the telegram, Ken? Or is it personal?" His voice is cautious.

"It's from Persis. She has convinced someone to grant her two days of leave and wants to come and visit me tomorrow," Ken answers openly.

"Ah, yes, Persis," Jem nods knowingly. "Faith wrote that she caused quite the ruckus by just disappearing to England in the middle of the night."

Ken grimaces. "That's one way of putting it. But alas, what goes around comes around, doesn't it? She was posted to a hospital in Newcastle in late November. _1st Northern General Hospital_. Of all the places! She hates every second there." He shakes his head slightly, but I _think_ I detected a tiny smile at the thought of his frivolous younger sister.

I turn back to my brothers. "Are the two of you still in London tomorrow? If Persis is coming, I'd better find something else to do for the day."

"Jem has a couple of days of leave, but I have to take the evening train back," Walter answers, not without regret.

Jem shoves an elbow into his side and remarks, _sotto voce_ , "Did you notice that she only deigns to spend time with us because Ford is busy?"

I'm beginning to worry about Walter's eyes becoming stuck, what with how often he's been rolling them today. I, in turn, direct an annoyed glance at Jem. "Are you quite sure there's no way to send you back to Salonica?" I query.

"Positive," Jem counters cheerfully, not missing a beat, and blows smoke into my direction.

While I am busy waving away the smoke with one hand, Ken leans closer to me and touches my arm. "You don't have to leave just because Persis is coming," he points out softy.

I lower my hand and shake my head, very aware of my brothers watching us. "It's fine. She hasn't seen you in years. She'll want you for yourself and rightfully so," I reply, keeping my voice quiet.

In truth, I feel no little reluctance at sacrificing an entire day of our already too-short time together. Half of my leave is over. I'll be back on a ship to France in a week and there's no knowing when – or _if_ – we'll see each other again. But as my hand moves to touch my ring, hanging from a chain around my neck and hidden by my uniform, I have to admit that Persis has every right to spend time with him as well. And, well – I can afford to be generous, can't I?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag' from 1915 (lyrics by George Henry Powell, music by Felix Powell)._

 _Eliane Cossey (1902-1942) worked at a waitress in her father Elie's café_ A La Poupée _in Poperinghe during the Great War, alongside her elder sisters Martha and Marie-Louise. Because of her red hair she was known as_ Ginger _to the soldiers and was a great favourite with customers of the café. She got married after the war and moved to London, where she was killed during an air raid in 1942._


	36. Give me a hand o' thine

_January 8_ _th_ _, 1918  
London, England_

 **Give me a hand o' thine**

Appreciatively, Jem glances around the dining room of the Kingsley hotel.

"And they really let you stay here every time you're in London?" he asks, eyeing the centrepiece with some interest.

"Either here or at the Thackeray, right around the corner. I've stayed there as well, but so far, I've only ever been passing through," I explain, taking another spoonful of my dessert, the culmination of a rather nice lunch.

Both hotels are in Bloomsbury, right next to the British Museum, which I still haven't set foot in, probably to my disgrace. Much more importantly, though, it's only a brisk 30-minute-walk down Oxford Street to Ken's hospital. It would be even faster using the tube, but I can walk just fine, thank you very much!

"And the army is paying for it?" Jem continues his cross-examination. His voice sounds incredulous.

I shrug. "Yes, the army is paying. The invoices get sent there directly, so we don't even have to pay in advance. Every nursing sister with the CAMC who is spending time in London can stay at either hotel at any given time. More than that, we are strongly encouraged to do so."

It's a comfortable arrangement, having the hotel invoices sent directly to the army. The army pays travelling and hotel costs for all our journeys during which no military transport or lodging can be provided. We can always rely on having a certain standard met – as officers, we always travel First Class, for example – but normally, we have to pay ourselves initially, and have the money refunded later on, which is impractical. The special rule regarding these two London hotels therefore makes things quite a bit easier, much as it surprises Jem.

"Look," I continue and point my dessert spoon at him, "If they could, the brass hats would tether us to our hospitals. _If_ we must leave them, they want to know exactly where we are at all times. We get a cushy hotel and three meals a day paid for by the army so that we _stay_ there. You have to pay for your lodgings in advance, but at least you can choose them for yourself. Just because you're a _man_. So there are two sides to this, really."

For a moment Jem considers me, then he shakes his head, murmuring, "You sound like Di."

"In that case, many thanks for the compliment," I shoot back and can see the corners of his mouth twitch up. I quickly take the last spoonful of my dessert and push my chair back.

Jem, who eats faster than anyone else I've ever met and has never liked sitting still for any stretch of time, is already on his feet. He waves at the waitress, who's been busying herself in our vicinity for quite a while already, unashamedly making eyes at him.

It only takes a few minutes until we're at the entrance of the hotel, swaddled into our coats to stave off the January cold.

"Where to?" I enquire, wrapping the scarf tighter around my neck. It's not as cold as it was last winter, but it's certainly cold enough.

"I need new gloves, if you don't mind," Jem answers, shoving his worn-looking gloves at me as if to prove a point.

I nod briskly. "Selfridge's it is, then," I announce. Truth to be told, I hardly know my way around London any better than I did in 1916, but I've passed Selfridge's, the big department store on Oxford Street, twice a day on my walks in the past week.

There's a slight grin on Jem's lips, but he doesn't protest. Instead, he offers me his arm and we set off in the direction of Oxford Street. The moment we have reached it, a newspaper boy waves at us, holding this day's issue, but Jem shakes his head and the boy turns towards an elegantly dressed man behind us instead.

"Any interesting news in the papers today?" I query as we stroll along the street.

Jem raises his shoulders in a shrug. "The cursed Russians are still negotiating for a separate peace," he replies, not without bitterness, "and the thrice cursed Germans have sunk a British hospital ship in the Channel. The _Rewa_. Most of the passengers and crew made it off alive, though."

„Thrice cursed Germans," I murmur.

The _Rewa_ isn't the first hospital ship to have been torpedoed by German U-boats, and more have been sunk by sea mines. This is also how the _Britannic_ , sister ship to the unfortunate _Titanic_ , found her end in the Mediterranean last year. It's a war crime to sink a hospital ship, but since when have the Germans ever cared about that?

"News from Halifax?" I want to know next.

It's been about a month since a cargo ship loaded with explosives collided with another ship in the Halifax harbour. The following explosion, they say, was one of hitherto unknown proportions. Parts of the city were destroyed and there's talk of a thousand dead and many more injured. The war produces many more casualties in a day, of course, but it's different, somehow. Halifax is home. It should have been _safe_.

Jem shakes his head. "No news. The investigations are still underway."

He returns the salute of a group of soldiers who have stopped to let us pass. They are _Convalescent Blues_ – soldiers that have been wounded and are not fully recovered yet. Their collective name comes from the uniform-like clothes they are obligated to wear, both in the hospital and outside of it. These are blue, pyjama-like suits with a white shirt and a red necktie, manufactured in standard sizes and, because of that, often ill-fitting. The soldiers despise this convalescent uniform, but it has the one advantage that it reliably identifies them as convalescents – and for someone who has been wounded in the service for King and Country, many people are happy to buy the odd drink. In contrast, it's no easy feat for a man in civvies – civilian clothes, that is – to cross the street unencumbered after three and a half years of war. The blue convalescent uniforms therefore do have their advantages, horrible as they may look.

Officers, naturally, are exempt from wearing them. They wear silk pyjamas when in hospital and get an allowance to buy themselves clothes to wear during their time spent convalescing. To save them from being jeered at while wearing _mufti_ – soldier speak for civilian clothes – they get a white armband with a red crown, identifying them as convalescent officers in public. The majority of the officers I know have preferred to put on proper uniform as soon as possible, though.

"Have we heard if anybody we know was in it? The explosion, I mean," I ask, and I'm a little surprised myself how calm my voice sounds.

Thankfully, Jem shakes his head. "No one. I had a letter from Faith the day before yesterday. Two of her old classmates from Redmond were in Halifax at the time of the explosion, but they're alright."

" _Good_ ," I say and mean it. "What else does Faith write about?"

But if Jem answers, I never hear a thing.

The moment the words have left my mouth, I feel my body tense up. I can see Jem's lips move, but I hear nothing of what he says. My breath stops at first, then continues, quick and shallow. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out every other sound.

Every sound but one.

 _Ritsch ratsch_.

I am vaguely aware of Jem's lips stilling in their movement. His quizzical expression gives way to one of worry. All around us, people are moving, shapeless figures, hastening past. There's a weight around my chest, tightening. It's hard to breathe.

 _Ritsch ratsch._

I squeeze my eyes shut, press my hands against my ears, try to block out the sound. But it's in my mind, it's _always_ in my mind. I shake my head, trying to shake it _out_ , but it stays, relentless.

 _Ritsch ratsch._

Someone – Jem? – pulls at my arm, pulls me away. I stumble after him. I can't see, can't think. In my head there's only this horrible, screeching sound, growing louder and ever _louder_ , until I think my head must explode from it, until I can't _take_ it anymore, until –

Until it suddenly stops.

Silence.

Heavenly, merciful silence.

"Rilla?" Jem's voice reaches me, as if from far away. It sounds worried, scared even.

Jem and scared?

Cautiously, I open one eye, then the other. We are standing in a small side street, just the two of us. It appears safe. Very slowly, hesitantly, I lower my hands, listening carefully, prepared to press them back over my ears at any moment.

Voices, footsteps. The sound of an automobile on the main street. Somewhere, a crying child. A dog barks. From one of the houses, the sound of a piano wafts down to us.

"That piano needs to be tuned," I remark. It's the first thing that comes to my mind.

For a moment, Jem stares at me, aghast. Then he closes his eyes. Several long seconds pass. Finally, a deep sigh and he's back to looking at me. "You scared me back there!" There's worry in his voice, but also a sliver of accusation.

"I'm sorry," I apologise. It's what you do, isn't it?

Only very slowly do I regain the feel of my body. As if I have left it for a short time and need to return to it still. I feel as if I have run for miles. My breath is short and hurried. My heart beats in my throat. My head swims.

"What _was_ that?" Jem demands to know. He appears alarmed and for a second I think he'd like to shake me. Apparently, I've truly upset him.

"Nothing, I…" I take a deep breath, start again, "There was this – this saw. I'm not good with… I'm not good with them. Hearing them, I mean. Saws."

Jem's brow furrows as he looks down at me. "Which…?"

" _Please_ don't tell me there was no saw!" I interrupt him. My voice is as hysterical as I suddenly feel.

For if there was no saw than that would mean that I'm imagining them now, even unprovoked. And that would mean…

My heart is beating faster once more.

"There was a construction site on the other side of the road," Jem replies slowly. "I don't remember hearing a saw, but maybe your hearing is just better than mine?"

My heart slows down again. I take a deep breath.

A pause stretches between us.

"I still have no idea what happened back there," Jem points out finally. He seems calmer now, his words chosen more carefully.

I turn my head, look down the side street. A big black bird lands on a rubbish bin. A few meters to its left lies a ragged grey cat. As it sees the bird, its tail starts moving, whipping from side to side.

"I did three stints in the operating theatre," I finally answer, if rather haltingly. "At first, it was interesting. Awful, yes, and sad, but also very interesting. I was learning so much. After a while, it became more of a routine. That was alright as well. Everything was fine until… until Passchendaele. There were days when half of our operations were amputations. A leg here, two arms there. It wasn't nice. So much for operations being a form of art! We didn't have time for art. It was _off, off, off_ , as fast as possible. Whether it was pretty or not, no one cared. Whether the patients wanted it, no one asked."

I turn my head slowly, look back at Jem. He appears subdued.

"And after a while, I couldn't get the sound of the bone saw out of my head anymore. Daytime, night-time, it never stopped sawing in my head," I continue quietly. "And then, one day, I stood in the theatre and looked at a pile of legs and… in that moment, I was this close to –"

This close to what?

To not being able to bear it anymore?

To _breaking_?

I'm aware of Jem's eyes on me, so worried, and try to reach for a smile, but none will come.

My hands, I notice, are shaking. I hold them out in front of me, spread my fingers, but the shaking doesn't subside. My arms, too, are shaking, I realize, somewhat to my surprise. I look down. It's not just my arms and hands. My whole body is shaking.

A second later, Jem has pulled me close to him. My face is against his shoulder, his arms hold me tight. I press my nose deeper into the coarseness of his uniform, squeezing my eyes shut. He keeps me there, for several minutes, until the shaking gradually lessens.

Finally, Jem breaks the silence. "I'm no surgeon, as you well know. What you have seen in those theatres, I can only share in from afar. But we received patients coming down from the fights around Passchendaele in autumn. They didn't talk much, but there was something in their face that I haven't seen very often yet, and in this intensity, only once before.

I lean back a little, so I can look at him. His arms loosen their hold, but don't release me yet. "If you want to talk about Heaven, you must ask Walter," I tell him, "But if you want the coordinates of Hell, ask me."

"That bad," Jem replies. It's not even a question.

"Worse," I amend. Then, more pensively, I add, "Though… I guess even Passchendaele is just one of several Hells. _L'Enfer_ must be Verdun. And the Somme, the new Styx."

Jem purses his lips. "And Gallipoli lies on its shore," he says quietly.

Of course. Gallipoli and the Dardanelles, as far away as they have always been to the rest of us, were terribly close to Jem for a very long time. The Dardanelles, where they threw hundreds of thousands of soldiers against rocky cliffs, the capture of which was maybe never possible at all. They say that most of the soldiers never reached the shore but were killed while still in the sea. Those who survived had to duck down in the shadow of the cliffs, on a small sliver of beach, always under threat from the Ottomans lying in waiting above their heads. The wounded still had to survive the evacuation to Lemnos. Lemnos, that inhospitable, waterless Greek island where Jem spent the latter half of 1915.

Silence falls between us. I let my head sink forward, lay my cheek against Jem's shoulder. His chin settles on the top of my head.

"I understand now why you had to prevent them from taking Ken's leg," Jem remarks after a while. "That was your trauma as much as it was his, wasn't it?"

I don't answer, let the words sink in instead.

Might he be right? Is this the reason for why I so desperately worked to save his leg? Because _I_ wouldn't have been able to stand it? Because I, only days away from Passchendaele and that pile of legs, would have been unable to bear it if Ken, of all people, had shared in that fate?

The thought is new. But it rings true.

"You've done a lot for him," Jem says. There's no judgement in his voice. He's just pointing it out as fact.

I raise my shoulders, let them fall again. "I guess I did," I concur, albeit hesitatingly. "I argued and begged for him, I slept on the floor next to his bed for days. But if I'm being truthful… he helped me just as much. When I came to Arques I was… broken, somehow. Just pieces that didn't fit together anymore. Pieces that I couldn't _make_ fit together.

"And he did?" Jem asks quietly.

I frown, deep in though. "I don't know if he fully realized it. But it helped that… that he was _there_. You see, in Flanders, I almost lost my belief that there was any sense in what we were doing. Ken was – my project, if you will. I could concentrate on him and forget about the rest. And when we did it, when we helped him recover… part of that belief came back then."

Jem makes a thoughtful sound. "And what would have happened if he hadn't recovered?" he asks.

"I tied my – my wholeness to… well, to him _staying_ whole." I grimace at the unintended pun. "If he wouldn't have made it…"

I let the end of my sentence hang, stretching out and filling the air between us. We both know what it would have done to me.

"You love him, don't you?" Jem's voice is very calm. Still, I'm glad I don't have to look him in the eye.

Still, there's only the one answer. "I do."

A moment of hesitation, then –

"Strange thought," Jem remarks, but he sounds more pensive than unkind. "I mean, sure, Walter prepared me for it yesterday, but… five years ago, if anyone had tried to tell me that you and Ken Ford…" He trails off.

"He's changed." My voice has a warning edge to it.

Jem laughs softly, swaying me from side to side to indicate peacefulness. "So have you," he points out. "Five years ago, I would have warned you against that relationship. Now… I think you can hold your own against him, now."

"And that, in your opinion, is the secret to a successful marriage, yes?" I enquire pointedly.

"So he's going to marry you?" Jem counters. He's visibly alert now. I guess he's been trying to weave in that question for a while now.

I roll my eyes at him. " _We_ will marry _each other_. How's that sound to you?"

I can feel him laugh.

"So you're going to hang up your nurse's veil soon?" he asks. I think the question is meant rhetorically.

"No," I answer, "I'll continue working."

Jem leans away from me, putting both hands on my shoulders to move me backwards, so we can look each other in the eye. There's surprise in his, even a certain skepticism.

Instinctively, I tilt my chin forward.

"You do realize that there are no married nurses with the CAMC?" Jem enquires cautiously.

Polly appears in front of my inner eye. Polly, who gave up her work to marry her doctor last month, only to send him off to France mere days later. He's been posted to a Field Ambulance there. And she is stuck in England, with nothing else to do but to _wait_ until this war is over and returns him to her.

"Which is why we won't get married until after the war," I explain to Jem. My voice doesn't sound as sure as I would like.

He blinks at me, puzzled. "Does Ken know that?"

Admittedly, he has hit a sore spot there. So far, we've only touched upon the subject of marriage very cautiously, but I'm pretty sure that Ken wants to marry sooner rather than later. Understandably, maybe – he has already lost one fiancée to _time_. And yet –

"It's not his decision alone," I inform Jem, a little more sharply than intended, "And it's not your decision _at all_."

Jem raises both hands, probably in an attempt to placate me. "Hey, calm down," he counters quickly. "I just thought… would you like to hear a bit of brotherly advice?"

That I nod at all is only down to the fact that he asked beforehand.

He takes a moment to collect himself, but when he speaks, his voice is imploring. "Ken is going to be back at the front in autumn. Maybe earlier, knowing him. I can tell you that with some certainty. Maybe the war will be over by then. Maybe it's going to take another three and a half years. _No one_ can tell you _that_. And with all due respect to your sense of duty, Rilla, but… you have to realize that you might be waiting a long time for that wedding. Which would probably be alright if you could be certain of it happening. But once he's back in France, _nothing_ is certain anymore. If you marry and he dies, you will have that at least. If you wait for the war to end and he doesn't survive, you'll have nothing. Now, look at me and tell me that you won't regret that for the rest of your life!"

I don't look at him. Instead I turn away, walk a couple of steps down the street. The grey cat eyes me warily. The black bird is long gone.

"Rilla?" comes Jem's voice from behind.

Very slowly, I turn back to him. "Since when have you been so wise?" I ask, raising both eyebrows. I aim to sound blithe but don't quite succeed.

„ _I_ have been spending too much time with Walter – he's a bad influence. _You_ , on the other hand, are evading the question," Jem shoots back with typical quick-wittedness.

I sigh, frustrated. "I know, I know. It's just that… it's not… it's not so _easy_. But how about this: I'll think about it, alright?"

And I know that I truly will.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Auld land syne' from 1788 (lyrics taken from a poem by Robert Burns (itself probably inspired by an earlier song by James Watson), music as per a Scottish folk song (possibly 'The Miller's wedding'))._


	37. Come weal or woe

_January 9_ _th_ _, 1918  
Imperial_ _Order_ _Daughters of the Empire Canadian Red Cross Hospital for Officers, London, England_

 **Come weal or woe**

"Hello, you," I greet Ken as I enter the room.

He's sitting next to the window, a book in his lap. A quick glance around the room tells me that the patient he shares it with is, once again, out. It's a lieutenant with a round face and ruddy cheeks and an injured arm, who spends most of his time down in the communal rooms. The few times I have met him he was very polite, but I know that Ken thinks he talks too much.

"Since when is 'you' and adequate form of address for the man of your heart?" Ken quips with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Do you really want me to start thinking up terms of endearment for you?" I counter, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Ken laughs, shaking his head. "Probably not," he admits.

I lean down to give him a quick kiss, then pull up a chair and sit down next to him. Ken closes his book and puts it down on the window sill, right next to an expensive-looking box of chocolates. Probably from Persis.

"What about you? Did you have a nice time with Jem yesterday?" he asks.

"It _was_ nice," I assure. "Jem has lost none of his talent for infuriating me, but all things considered, he behaved rather amiably. We did some shopping, had a nice dinner and then went to see an operetta in the evening. 'Arlette', down at Shaftesbury Theatre."

"Jem _voluntarily_ set foot into a theatre?" There's skepticism written all over Ken's face, making me smile.

"Surprising, isn't it? But rest assured that he spent the entire time pointing out every single irrational thing the characters did on stage. In a _loud_ whisper. The experience of attending the theatre did not necessarily become the richer for it," I explain and grimace slightly to emphasize my point.

Ken laughs. "And where is Jem now?" he wants to know. "Is he busy or has he actually become tactful in his old days?"

I scoff, decidedly unladylike. "Jem and tactful? Ha! As if! Jem won't ever become tactful, not in this life and probably not in the next either," I reply. "No, he really had something else to do. We ate breakfast together earlier and then he took off to visit an old colleague of his who's stationed in a hospital somewhere close to London."

"Good," nods Ken, considering me openly. "Then I have you all to myself."

Two weeks ago, such a remark would have been enough to make me blush, but now I hold his gaze, tilt my chin forward a little bit. When he notices, he chuckles lightly.

I bite back a smile. "Is Persis already on her way back to Newcastle?" I enquire, a study in casualness.

"She had to catch the train at noon to be back in time for curfew. As you very well know, seeing as you've only turned up now," Ken points out drily.

The glare I direct at him doesn't appear to faze him much. Instead, he takes my hands, weaves our fingers together carefully, then looks at me searchingly. "Be honest – you didn't just choose to stay away all of yesterday and this morning to give us some time alone, did you?"

I raise my shoulders, hold them for a moment before letting them fall again. "Oh, I don't know," I sigh. "I guess it's just… Persis and I have never been close and Selina is her best friend and I just thought… that it might be awkward."

"You needn't have worried on that account. There was no one more furious at Selina for calling off our engagement than Persis," Ken replies.

I look at him, surprised. I didn't know that.

"After Selina told our families, Persis refused to speak to her for weeks. I had to write countless of letters to her, imploring her to finally give in even a little bit," Ken continues. "They were back on speaking terms at least when Persis left for England, but when you consider that they used to be inseparable for years, that's not so very much."

I nod slowly. "Persis can be very… headstrong," I remark cautiously.

Ken grins. "She's as stubborn as a mule and holds grudges like no one else," he admits easily.

"You said that!" I am quick to point out. I know with some certainty that Ken allows no one but himself to speak thusly about his sister. There were six of us at home, but Persis and Ken only ever had each other. I know how close they are. Maybe that's another reason for why I didn't feel up for meeting Persis yet.

"So I did," Ken acknowledges cheerfully. "Oh, and besides, Persis is actually looking forward to meeting you. That letter you sent her in October made quite the impression on her. She left the very same night after having received it. Just packed her bags and ran off."

I open my mouth, realize that I have nothing to say, and close it again.

"Wasn't quite what you intended, was it?" Ken asks, but he sounds calm, even a little teasing.

"No. I'm sorry," I answer sheepishly. That _really_ wasn't my intention.

Thankfully though, Ken just shrugs. "As I said, she's as stubborn as a mule. She would have come either way," he observes.

It is, alas, not enough to dispel my guilty conscience. Ken doesn't miss that. He squeezes my hand comfortingly and remarks, "Hey, don't look at me like that! If this is anyone's fault, it's mine. Without that scene I caused back in autumn, you would never have written to her at all, right?"

He waits for me to nod.

"There we go," he continues. "Besides… sure, I would have preferred for Persis to stay in Canada, but when you consider that she's already done six weeks of hospital work by now, she was remarkably composed yesterday. And she's in _Newcastle_! The worst that could happen to her there is that she gets soot into her hair!"

Despite myself, I can't help smiling and Ken nods, satisfied. "Better," he declares, then leans forward to steal a kiss.

Which leads me to the question…

"Speaking of which, did you tell Persis about… well, about our engagement?" I ask, not without caution, once Ken has leaned back again.

"No, I didn't tell her anything about us. She would only have asked questions and it's not like I have the necessary answers for those. For the moment, it was easier just to keep quiet about it," Ken replies, shrugging.

I frown. "What kind of questions?"

"About when we will marry, where it will take place, who will attend… those things," he answers with another shrug.

And we've arrived at the elephant in the room. I take a deep breath, collect my thoughts, before declaring, "I've been meaning to talk to you anyway. I have given this some more thought."

Ken becomes alert immediately. " _Thought_ ," he repeats slowly. "Should I be worried?" He keeps his tone light, but there's well-hidden concern just about evident in his eyes.

I shake my head, very decidedly. "On the contrary, I think," I tell him. I feel a bit more unsure about this than I would like.

"Good. Right," Ken nods. "Do you want to share those thoughts with me?" He gives my hand another squeeze. Immediately, I feel myself growing calmer.

Nevertheless, it takes a moment until I have gathered all the words I need. I don't quite dare look at him, so I direct my gaze downwards at our linked hands.

"I know that we haven't really spoken about our – well, our wedding so far," I finally begin. "But I also think I am right in saying that you… that you would prefer not to wait very much longer?" I give him a quick glance.

"True. But you don't want to give up your nursing work yet, do you?" Ken retorts calmly.

Hesitantly, I nod. I want to say something, but Ken beats me to it.

"Yes, I would prefer us to marry rather sooner than later," he remarks. "But I have first-hand experience of how seriously you take your work and I respect that. If you want to wait a while longer, I'm not going to rejoice over it, but I can and I _will_ wait for you. Even until the war is over."

"If you are still –" I break off, can't speak the words. My throat feels tight.

Ken, however, nods. "If I am still alive then," he says calmly. "That's the prerequisite."

I don't like to hear him talk about his own death so matter-of-factly.

My gaze moves over to the window, through which the wintry Hyde Park can be seen. Silence sets between us, several moments long.

"It's curious," I finally remark slowly, "I've never really thought about it before, but when Jem mentioned yesterday that he expects you to be back at the front in autumn at the latest… it was the first time I realized that this is partly my fault as well."

"How is it your fault?" Ken asks carefully. His thumb strokes the back of my hand.

I hesitate for several seconds, search for the right words. If there even is such a thing as 'the right words'. "See… when we had to decide whether to amputate in November, I only thought about what kind of life you would have lived after an amputation," I admit. "What I didn't consider was… if they had taken the leg, you would have been allowed to go home." Almost reluctantly, I move my gaze away from the window, look at him.

Ken appears very composed. "But at what cost?" he retorts calmly.

I sigh, frustrated now. "There are people out there who would think a leg an adequate price for a life," I point out. My tone, I realize, is a little bit challenging.

When Ken answers, there's suddenly a slight strain in his voice as well. "The way you say that, one would think my death is a done deal. But in truth, no one knows what's going to happen. It will be months yet before I'm even partly restored. Maybe the war will be over by then anyway – won, lost, who knows?" He raises both eyebrows.

I shrug, lean back slightly in my chair. I don't want to fight, but the sudden change of mood has come so quickly that I don't know how to resolve it.

When I try to draw back my hand, Ken holds it tight.

One, two, three seconds of silence.

Then Ken sigh, pushes his free hand through his hair. When he speaks, it sounds more conciliatory. "Do you remember that day when I visited you in your CCS back in the spring and told you that sometimes, I think Death was simply too busy to pick me up?"

Cautiously, even warily, I nod.

Now it's Ken moving his gaze over to the window, as he stares out of it pensively, almost absentmindedly. "When I was wounded, I lay there in the mud for hours, my leg hurting like fire, grenades and bullets all around, the world twisted into a totally _bizarre_ place. And I remember thinking that it was all over now. That he had come to take me. And for a moment I lay there and thought _, so that's alright then_. It's the last thing I remember. I was so sure that was the end – and when I woke up, it was you sitting next to me. Of all people." He laughs softly, incredulously.

I am very quiet.

"For the first minutes, and in a way for the first couple of days even, I was quite certain that none of this was _real_. Least of all _you_. Whether I was in Heaven or Hell I didn't know, but whatever it was, I was not going to question it," Ken continues. "If this was afterlife, I was fine with it. I remember thinking that the pain could have been less, but I had you or a projection of you and, all things considered, it was alright with me." His eyes are still fixed on the windowpane, as if he can see those days being replayed on the glass.

"At some point I realized that this _wasn't_ afterlife, that Death, for whatever reason, had decided to leave me in this world. It would have been so easy for him to take me, but he left me lying there in no man's land. And… this is going to sound superstitious, but why should he come and get me in the future when he already had the opportunity and didn't want me?" he asks. At last, he looks back at me. His gaze is open, questioning, as if he's really waiting for an answer.

I swallow, stare down at my hands for a second or two. "He only took Jerry at the second opportunity as well," I remind him. My voice is hoarse.

"I think Death didn't want to take Jerry _at all_. He just didn't have any choice in the matter," Ken replies quietly.

Abruptly, I look up. "You mean…?" I leave the question hanging. I know it requires no ending to be understood.

"What I mean is that Jerry wasn't himself anymore," Ken answers evenly. "And that makes his death even more tragic."

"Then you think that Jerry got his… his _afterlife_? Even if he…" once more, I let the sentence hang, unspoken, in the air between us.

Ken nods slowly. "I don't know if there is a God somewhere," he answers thoughtfully, "But if He exists and if He has no mercy for someone like Jerry, who has lived through some of the most horrible realities a person can experience, then Heaven is no place I want to strive for."

"So you don't wholly rule out the existence of a God?" I ask, inclining my head slightly. Between 'God' and 'Jerry', God looks to be the easier subject.

"Something or someone took me from that battlefield and brought me to you. Whether God, Death, a guardian angel, fate or just plain coincidence – who knows? I'm prepared to feel universal gratitude towards whomever," Ken explains with a lopsided smile.

I, however, can't quite laugh at his joke. This entire conversation weighs too heavily on me. I am not as hardened as he is.

Instead, I turn back to our original subject. "Yes, _something_ brought you back this time," I point out slowly. "Maybe it will do so another time. If not… well, if we resolve not to get married until after the war, there's the possibility that we won't get married at all. And as important as my work is to me, _you_ are more important. And I would never forgive myself if – if something happened to you and we didn't even have these precious moments together."

Ken considers me carefully. His hand reaches up, touches my face. "So we will get married?" he asks. His voice is cautious, but in his eyes I can see a well-controlled flicker of hope.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second, before explaining, "Here, this is what I've been thinking: As long as you're still in the hospital, I will continue my work. I will try and have them transfer me back to England. Most of our hospitals are down in the south, so I would be close to you. That way, we can see each other but I can continue to make myself useful for a while longer. Besides, Frances thinks I mollycoddle you, so maybe it would even be beneficial to your recovery if I back off a bit and confine myself to a visitor's role." I try for a smile that turns out a bit wonky.

"Is that possible? To have yourself transferred to England just like that?" Ken ask, clearly surprised.

"I think so. I will justify it by saying that I want to be somewhere where there are no air raids," I explain with a shrug.

Ken purses his lips and it takes me a moment to understand that it's because of the air raids I mentioned. It's probably quite a new experience for him, not to be the one in danger, but to be the one who's left behind.

"It's not that bad," I try to soothe him. "I mean, yes, in Flanders they could get _quite_ close sometimes. But you've seen for yourself that there weren't so many air raid alarms in Arques at all. And it never once got really serious."

"What I have seen is that you have a pronounced dislike for shelters of any kind," Ken retorts drily.

I can't even deny that.

In a purely theoretical sense, I am perfectly aware that we are much safer in a dug-out in case of one of those planes _not_ just flying over our heads one day. But practically… It makes me nervous, the narrowness of the dug-out, the dark, the noise, the people. There was more than one moment when the prospect of an airplane seemed much easier to bear than the reality of a dug-out. And more often than not, I take my chances.

"I'll take care of myself, alright?" I promise anyway, raise our interwoven hands and press a kiss to the back of Ken's hand.

He sighs. He doesn't appear convinced, but I can see how he forces himself not to say anything more. One or two seconds pass, then he shakes his head slightly, as if trying to get rid of an unwelcome thought.

"So you're asking for a transfer to England?" he reaches back for the earlier topic instead.

"That's the idea. I will work for as long as you are recovering. And then I will resign and we'll get married before they send you back to France," I round out my plan.

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "And you can just resign?" he wants to know. There's doubt in his voice and I can't blame him. For him, same as for every other soldier, it is impossible to resign from the army. There's just no way to do it. Those who can fight have to do so until there's nothing left to fight anymore.

"It's different for us nurses," I explain. "A well-founded request for release from our duty is usually granted, and an impending marriage is the best reason there is. It's normally no problem at all, provided that the nurse in question has done one year of work in Europe. My friend Polly did it. We might not be allowed to continue working as army nurses after being married, but the army is still of the opinion that we _should_ get married. We're women, after all – what higher calling can there be in our lives but marriage?" I grimace slightly to emphasize my words.

Ken smiles. "And yet you still want to be my wife," he says.

"Of course I do! I just don't want it to be the only thing I'm doing for the rest of my life," I reply. "And besides, we have to get married first anyway. So… what do think of my plan?" My heart is suddenly beating twice as fast.

For a moment, nothing happens, but then Ken nods slowly. "It sounds like an excellent solution," he answers. Both his voice and his face are serious, but there's a twinkle in his eyes.

I let go of a breath. The tension leaves my body.

" _But_ ," Ken continues and I tense back up immediately, "I would still like to know whether it is possible for me to get a kiss before Sister Thompson comes in to bring dinner." A grin spreads over his face, that audacious, triumphant grin that is so very _him_.

I laugh, relieved, but still raise my hand to give him a jab. He catches it easily, mid-air. "You are impossible and I really shouldn't be kissing you, you horrible man!" I announce with all the indignant righteousness I can manage.

But I kiss him anyway. Of course I do.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When you're away' from 1914 (lyrics by Henry M. Blossom and music by Victor Herbert)._


	38. Sick as we can be

_February 12_ _th_ _, 1918_ _ **  
**_ _No. 7 Canadian Stationary Hospital, Arques, France_

 **Sick as we can be**

Work on the medical ward is different from anything I've done here in Europe so far. For some reason, it took one and a half years before I was posted to a medical ward for the first time, despite there actually being more ill than wounded patients, especially in the winter. They don't have this worrying tendency to die tough, the ill patients.

Meningitis is a killer, admittedly, but thankfully very seldom. Pneumonia, too, can turn pretty nasty pretty quick – even more so when the patient has been gassed as well. We're mostly on top of tuberculosis though, I think. At least they don't die as easily from it as _La Traviata_ wants to make you believe.

Tetanus and typhoid, those old killers from past wars, are also mostly under control. Every member of the Canadian army is mercilessly inoculated against typhoid, and I say 'merciless' because it's far from pleasant. Often enough, a whole unit is struck down by debility after having received their inoculations and as there's not one but _three_ of them, it's easily imaginable that the soldiers don't like it much. I was inoculated as well, back in Canada, and it's not one of my favourite memories.

When it comes to tetanus, we also have a preventive treatment in place, namely the administration of an antitoxin. Every man who has been wounded or _looks_ as if he might have been, receives the antitoxin, preferably while still in the field. Because if we want to prevent the disease from taking root, the anti-tetanic serum needs to be administered as early as possible. Once _lockjaw_ has truly set in, it will end in certain death. And a cruel death it is! The system we have in place, as well as the antitoxin, seems to work though, and in one and a half years, I've hardly ever had a case of tetanus.

Quite on the contrary, actually. Sometimes, one would be forgiven from mistaking the isolation ward for the paediatric one. Measles, mumps, rubella, diphtheria, sometimes scarlet fever and chickenpox – name a childhood illness and chances are, we have at least three patients suffering from it. Often enough, it's whole companies that are struck down by the break out of one of these illnesses, preferably shortly before or shortly after their arrival in Europe, but even here in Arques we get our share of these illnesses. They don't die from them very often, though. Our soldiers are a fairly hardy bunch.

Tonsillitis is also very common, as are various heart problems. There's jaundice, illnesses of eyes and ears, and several different fevers. Then there's trench fever, which is what Walter had, but also rheumatic fever, and certainly common colds and bouts of flu. These are especially prevalent this February, which might not be as cold as the last one but is cold enough. All those illnesses usually refrain from being lethal though.

Apart from them, we also have those diseases that aren't so nice to look at. Rashes and eczema of every kind, and whatever other unsavoury sights the human skin has to offer. Scabies comes to mind – I wasn't aware of scabies still being a problem in this day and age, and yet, here we are. It's about as disagreeable as trench mouth, the name of not reminiscent of trench foot for nothing. It shows itself in rotten, infected gums and smells as unpleasant as it looks.

The blame for a lot of these diseases must be placed not only on the cold, wet trenches but on assorted creatures that live in them. Rats, mites, lice – all of them have made a home for themselves wherever soldiers are and not a few of them carry illnesses from one man to the next. Even in our hospitals, we are not safe from them, as persnickety as we are about hygiene and cleanliness. The lice especially are a downright plague. Not for nothing do I take the time to comb my hair with an especially fine-toothed comb every evening, regardless of how late it is and how tired I am. Lice stop at nothing and no one and I have seen men go clean mad over their itchiness.

The _truly_ mad patients – shell shock or whatever other nervous diseases there are – aren't treated in this hospital. The venereal cases, too, are channelled past us into specialised hospitals, which is perfectly fine with me. I'd much rather deal with a nice bout of scabies than be confronted with gonorrhoea, even from afar.

Scabies and gonorrhoea notwithstanding, I have to say that work on the medical ward reminds me much more of what I used to do back in Montreal. Fewer blown-off arms and bullets stuck in heads, more fever and coughs and rashes. It is, absurd as it might sound to an outsider, a nice diversion.

I can't say it's less strenuous, because on the surgical wards, the patients tend to be more awake and alert once they are through the worst. They demand more attention, but they are better able to help themselves as well. The sick patients are _sick_ , first and foremost, and are usually tired and exhausted and pretty out of it. They need a different form of care and I suppose it's this _different_ that makes it interesting for me at the moment.

"Destroyed a thermometer yet today, Sister?" a voice suddenly calls out to me. It belongs to a brazen little Australian with an ear infection in a bed to my right. When I turn to him, he grins widely. He's one of the few that are far from 'out of it', despite being ill. He's certainly not wanting for cheekiness and because of his accent, nothing he says ever sounds truly serious.

One of the more unpleasant realities about work on the medical ward is that we have to take their temperature even _more_ often. I was quite proud of having reduced my wastage of thermometers to an almost normal level, but the four weeks I've been on duty here since returning from London have reliably done away with all that. By now, most of the more alert patients have figured out that thermometers don't have long to live in my care.

"Not yet, thanks for asking," I respond as graciously as I can manage, but have to hide a smile myself.

Infected Ear grins even wider. "Well, the day isn't over," he retorts, wiggling his eyebrows meaningfully.

"But my shift is," I point out. "And you, did you take your medicine?"

He raises a hand in salute. "According to your orders, Sister," he announces in snappy tones.

"As it should be," I nod. "Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning."

"Another day, another thermometer," I hear him remark, _sotto voce_ , after I've turned my back on him.

Shaking my head slightly at his antics, yet unable to keep a smile from my face, I walk away from his bed. I do one last round, then have a look at the middle-aged man with the mucous cough that's been causing me worry for a few days now. He didn't get worse, which, all things considered, is a good thing, I suppose.

I hand over the ward to the night sister, put on my coat against the persistent frost and step out into the night. The cold air feels nice, but still I can't fight a big yawn.

I send a quick prayer to whatever might up be up there, watching over our fates, that we might be spared an air raid alert today. They come more often recently, sometimes more than once in one night, but equally we are sometimes spared it for one or two nights. Our hospital has never been truly threatened by the falling bombs, but the alert is just not conducive to a good night's sleep.

As I enter the Sisters' Mess, I am greeted by what looks to be a tea party. I suppose it must have been announced in advance, but for whatever reason, those announcements usually go right past me. Instead, it makes for a nice surprise.

The majority of nurses not currently on duty are in the room, as well as some of the doctors attached to our unit. I don't see any patients, but that's easily explained by the fact that we don't normally have officer patients and it goes without saying that invitations to these teas are only extended to officers. Instead, I spy several British officers. Infantry, judging by their uniforms. In all probability, they are stationed somewhere in the area and have therefore been invited. It's the _done_ thing to send out invitations to these shindigs to officers of other units in the vicinity.

A table has been laden with pots of coffee and tea, as well as cakes and sandwiches. One of the British officers has taken over the piano and plays a jaunty tune. Several pairs are dancing in the middle of the room, and the rest of the attendees are eating and chatting. The mood seems to be exceptional.

I shrug off my coat while surveying the room. At one of the tables I see Maud, newspaper spread out in front of her. Humming softly to the music, I make my way over to her.

"Any news?" I enquire as I sit down next to her.

"Wilson has added four principles to his fourteen points," Maud informs me, wrinkling her nose, "Whatever he means to achieve by it." The look she gives the front-page photograph of the American president tells me quite how little she thinks can be achieved by either points or principles.

"And the Russians are still negotiating for peace," she adds and once more, her look leaves little doubt that she thinks even less of _that_.

Then she sighs and shuts the paper with a decided swish, turning towards me instead. "But we're not changing any of that, are we, darling?" she asks, resigned.

I shrug. She's right. We're just lowly nursing sisters. The world won't listen to us.

"Here, before I forget." Maud reaches into her pocket and pulls out a bunch of letters.

With hasty, almost greedy fingers I take them from her, half aware of her indulgent smile. It's been a few days since we last had mail and my haul is appropriately rich. Quickly, I skim the envelopes to see who they are from.

There's the weekly letter from Colette, who is still stuck in Saint-Cloud and more sorry about it than ever. A letter from Betty, also in France by now, doing her duty in Doullens, somewhere in-between Amiens and Arras. She's writing her letters alone now, consequentially, but it still somehow irritates me to see her signature unaccompanied by Polly's. There's also a letter from Miss Inglish, who writes rarely but reliably.

Shirley's letter is in a rather sad state, stained and dog-eared, considering it had one of the shortest of journeys into my hands. The letters from Canada, in contrast, have travelled that much further. Dad's letter especially I have been waiting for impatiently, for I have asked his advice on the treatment of rheumatic illnesses. He might not be all that familiar with blasted-off limbs, but when it comes to illnesses of any kind, there's no faulting Dad's expertise, and I'm curious to read his take on this.

Even farther than the journey of Dad's letter was that of the envelope coming from Di-and-Mildred. Di seems to have decided that it's time for Mildred and me to get to know each other, and because of that, in recent months, every one of Di's letters has been accompanied by a letter from Mildred– or Milly, as Di calls her. It was a little strange in the beginning, but by now, I find myself looking forward to Mildred's letters as well. She's energetic and passionate and she has _opinions_ – lots and lots of them! – but she is also funny and warm and that the food parcels from Toronto are in no way inferior to those from the Glen isn't my sister's doing either.

The third letter to have journeyed across the Atlantic makes me smile. Little Henri was the first patient I ever did anything for here in Europe and maybe that's why he's so dear to me still. I'm glad that, even after all these months, he still writes to me occasionally. And I'm even gladder to read his cheerful tales about his family and his beloved Kamouraska. Somehow, he seems to have made peace with his lot.

I rarely hear anything from the majority of patients after they have passed from my care, but I have some that do write still. Not very many, because I've not done enough ward duty for that in the past. It's quite natural for a man to write to the sister who cared for him for weeks instead of the theatre nurse who he only ever saw once, and with his mind befuddled by chloroform to boot. But even I have a few pen pals among my former patients. Some from the Taplow days, a few _Français_ from my time in Saint-Cloud, and even the odd patient whom I especially cared for in either of the CCS.

It's nice when they write. It reminds me that life goes on.

The army forbids it, same as it forbids keeping a diary, but many of my fellow nurses also have autograph books in which the patients can write word of thanks, quotes, even poems. Some of the men sketch or draw, and the nurses paste photographs – also forbidden – into the books. Sometimes, they even put in _locks of hair_. And while I suppose it's a nice idea to keep one of these books as a souvenir, I never got around to starting one and it doesn't seem to be worth it now. Besides, I'd much rather have a proper letter from Henri from Kamouraska than a faded lock of hair pasted into a book.

I put Henri's letter to the side, skim through the last three envelopes. All are from Ken. He writes daily, and I can never quite decide if his letters make the separation easier or if I just miss him all the more for it. If that's even possible.

"How is Major Ford?" enquires a voice from my left. A deep voice that very obviously does not belong to Maud.

I peer up at Zachary. His face is impassive, making it hard to read him. For a split second I wonder why he's asking this now but then I realize he must have seen Ken's name on the envelopes.

"He's well, all things considered," I answer cautiously, "Bored more than anything."

"Understandable," nods Zachary. He hesitates for a moment, then pulls up a chair from the neighbouring table and sits down next to me. I watch him do it, but out of the corner of my eye I see Maud gathering up her newspaper and melting into the crowd. Part of me wants to call her back, but I suppress the impulse.

All around us, people are whirling and laughing, but between Zachary and me, silence reigns. We've managed to find a way to work together, but so far, any contact has been strictly work-related. This must be the first time in more than three months that we speak to each other outside of work. It is, therefore, the first time I have an opportunity to properly thank him.

"I – well, _we_ … well – _I_ never got around to thanking you. For everything you've done for Kenneth," I blurt out. The next second, I grimace slightly at my own words. So much for approaching this with caution.

"It was nothing," Zachary counters with a slight shake of his head.

I frown. "You were the one who made it possible for him to be treated the way I wanted. And you backed me up on it, even though you would have decided differently yourself," I remind him. "That's not nothing. And I don't bet, but if I did, I would bet good money that it was you who kept him here all these weeks."

That he doesn't contradict me is all the confirmation I need. "You don't need to thank me for that," he replies instead.

But this might be the only opportunity I will ever have to thank him, and I'm not likely to give up this chance just because he's decided to be modest about it.

"I mean it," I persist. "I never properly thanked you for what you did. For Ken. For me. It wasn't a given, especially – well, especially in light of our history."

The ghost of a smile appears on Zachary's face. "I was glad to do it," he assures.

Upon seeing my sceptical expression, he laughs softly. "Truly, I was. Major Ford is a good man and it's clear how much he means to you. And you, if I may say this without any hidden agenda, are a good person. That's why I was glad to help."

Great. Now I feel really bad. He's behaving so gallantly and I treated him so horribly. "That I left without so much as a word back in June wasn't one of my finest moments though," I point out and pull a face.

Zachary raises his shoulders in a shrug. "No, probably not," he agrees, "But it did bring me back down to earth. And… we all make mistakes. I certainly made more than one where you are concerned."

Something flits across his face – regret? – but his smile is kind. "I would like to believe that we could have had a chance had things been different," he continues, voice composed, "But if we ever did, it went up in smoke the moment Major Ford first appeared at our CCS. I didn't want to admit it, but I suspected it even then and that's why I tried to force something that couldn't be."

I don't protest his assumption that Ken was one of the reasons for why there was never a chance of anything but friendship between Zachary and me. It wasn't the _only_ reason, but if he hadn't suddenly re-entered my life like this – well, who knows how things would have turned out?

The truth is – that girlhood crush for Ken that I had claimed to have been over for so many years? If it was ever gone, it came back that much more forcefully once he stood in front of me again. Maybe it has been there the entire time, buried under other emotions and other problems. Zachary, in any case, never stood a chance once Ken was back.

Some seconds of silence pass, before Zachary moves to speak again. I push the thought of Ken from the forefront of my mind, into the little corner where he made himself at home a long time ago.

"Look at it as a form of atonement, if it helps," Zachary suggests. "For forcing your transfer back in June by my actions."

Thoughtfully, I frown at him, think over his words. Strictly speaking, he's right, and there was a time when I blamed him for it. Now though… it seems so _inconsequential_ after everything else that has happened since then.

"You don't need to atone for anything," I assure him.

Zachary nods slowly. "In that case… do you think we might be able to leave the past be?" he asks, words carefully chosen. The look he casts my way is cautious.

"And be friends?" I add.

He nods and I smile. Zachary's friendship, after all, was what I have wished for from the start.

"I am glad," Zachary says, voice steady. "I promise that you won't have to worry about my uncalled-for, well, _feelings_ for you anymore, but I care for you as a person. I would have regretted it, had we parted with all this still standing between as."

I raise my head to look at him, part questioningly, part hopeful. "So my application for transfer has been approved?" I ask.

A nod from Zachary. "You're leaving us tomorrow," he confirms with a regretful little smile.

And I find myself feeling some regret at his words as well. I am reluctant to leave Maud, who has become almost a mother figure to me in recent months, in the way I've not allowed my own mother to be for many years – this, too, is something I regret. And yes, I'm also sorry to be parted from Zachary, now that we've finally managed to put things right between us. Still… I will be closer to Ken and there's no person in this whole wide world that I've ever missed as painfully as him in the past four weeks. And that's why I have absolutely no doubt about where I want to be and where my next path will take me.

Back to _Blighty_.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Bombed last night' from 1917 (source unknown)._

 _Wilson is Thomas Woodrow Wilson (1856-1924), member of the Democratic Party, and 28_ _th_ _President of the United States from 1913 to 1921. Part of the reason for his re-election in 1916 was that he had kept the US out of the war up until then. Only after the Germans resumed unrestricted submarine warfare did the US enter the war on the Allies' side in April 1917 (one month after Wilson's second inauguration). In 1918, Wilson outlined his 'fourteen points' which he regarded as the only possible basis for ongoing peace. One of the points was the right of the people to self-determination. He followed up his points with 'four principles', 'four ends' and 'five particulars'. During peace negotiations the German delegation tried to refer to Wilson's points, but the Allies only allowed parts of them to be implemented._


	39. The officers get the pie and cake

_March 2_ _nd_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France_

 **The officers get the pie and cake**

The plan was good.

The plan was really, truly very good.

Until it failed spectacularly.

I don't know what made it fail, and couldn't find out about it either. Maybe some information wasn't passed on at some point, maybe someone decided to ignore it for whatever reason, or maybe there was just no way to respect all my wishes. Whatever the reason, only one part of my application for transfer was actually put into action. I _have_ been posted to an area where there are fewer air raids. So far, so good. Only that I'm still on the wrong side of the channel.

In Étaples. Of all places.

The British Expeditionary Force, BEF for short, has chosen Étaples to establish what might be its biggest base and training camp outside of England. The location is convenient, a bit south of Boulogne, one of the most frequented harbours. From Étaples proper there are railway lines leading south and east. Almost every soldier passes through the camp on his way from England to France.

And what a camp it is! A seemingly endless succession of tents and huts, as far as the eyes can see. I've only seen a small part of the camp yet, but I reckon that if one wanted to walk through the entire thing, they'd need at least a whole day. The running of it seems to be quite seamless even, which can certainly not be taken for granted considering the sheer size of it and the amount of people living here.

It's just… there's a strange kind of mood to be felt in this place, of the kind I've never yet encountered anywhere else. It's not a good kind of mood.

Still, work is work and one hospital is not so different from the next, regardless of where it has been set up. My temporary home for the past two weeks and the foreseeable future is _No. 1 Canadian General Hospital_ , the second to last in a long row of hospitals that lie along the riverbank north of Étaples proper.

My one consolation for finding myself still in France is that the matron of No. 1 CGH is none other than Miss Talbot. One and a half years have passed since we last saw each other in Taplow, yet she recognized me immediately. She even seemed to be pleased to see me, which lessened my disappointment at my new posting a bit.

It only took Miss Talbot half an hour to draw the whole story out of me. When she had heard it all, she immediately agreed to try and find out what went wrong with my application. Zachary promised something similar before I left Arques, but I have little hope in the true reason being unearthed yet. And a second transfer application, so quickly after the first one, will not likely be regarded with much goodwill.

Be that as it may, for the moment I am still in France. At least Miss Talbot decided to assign to me one of the most interesting tasks there is to be found in this hospital, probably in an attempt to cheer me up. This hospital has been a special hospital for patients with injuries to the femur, and it is the femur ward I'm currently doing my duty in. It's the specialized aspect of the work that makes it interesting. In the past, I spent long months treating every kind of wound under the sun, but now I have the opportunity to concentrate on giving the best possible care to patients with a very specific injury. There's a certain gratification to it, I've found.

Besides, the femur ward has Tim, and Tim is worth his weight in gold.

On the whole, the war has made me become more guarded, sometimes even wary, around other people. Tim, however, I've liked pretty much from the very first day – and yes, trusted him too. Next to Miss Talbot and work on the femur ward, it's Tim who makes this posting bearable at all.

Tim is an orderly, but before the war he was a medical student and thus has two years of medical studies under his belt. He's an amazing help when it comes to our daily work, and as a person he is also very different from that horrible Oliver Bright. He's usually cheerful, very funny, but clever and worldly enough to have an opinion on most things. I like being with him and it must be mutual because for some reason, we… well, _clicked_ , right from the start.

Right now, Tim is strolling towards me, past a row of beds, and signals for me to wait for him. "Are you taking a break as well?" he queries once he has caught up with me.

"It looks quiet. Seems as good a moment as any," I reply, casting another glance at the ward. It doesn't appear as if there's anything to be done that my fellow nursing sisters won't manage to tackle without me in the next two hours.

"I wanted to go down to Étaples, bring my shoes to the cobbler. Do you want to come along?" he asks, already reaching for a bag that has stood next to the ward's entry. Probably the shoes.

I hesitate.

Actually, I really do need to run some errands. My sewing kit needs replenishing and the last vestiges of my writing paper won't last until next week. And yet…

"I'm not allowed to leave the hospital without another sister to accompany me," I point out regretfully. "And you and I are not allowed to spend our time off together anyway. We're officer and NCO. You know how it is."

Tim flashes me a grin. "No problem," he declares. "We're just going to say you need to get some stuff for the ward –"

"What kind of stuff?" I interject.

"Stuff. I'll think of something," he assures. "Errands, at any rate. And because you couldn't find another sister to accompany you – easily believed, seeing as most of them don't set a foot into Étaples if they can't absolutely help it – you asked me, a trustworthy orderly, to come along. Just to make sure that you won't be carried off by a couple of dark and unwashed soldiers."

"Not His Majesty's brave troops, surely!" I exclaim, opening my eyes wide and fanning myself to feign shock.

Tim laughs. "You never know, do you?" He wiggles his eyebrows comically. "So, are you coming?"

For a moment, I still hesitate. His little tale sounds convincing enough for us to probably get away with it. The two stars on my shoulders usually go a long way to get people to believe me, anyways. And besides, it's the middle of the day and the army has been known to be rather paranoid at times.

"Do we have enough time?" I still ask, casting a doubtful look at my watch.

"It's a half an hour-walk to Étaples, plus another half an hour to get back," Tim explains. "So that leaves us with one hour to run errands. Should be enough, if you ask me"

I nod, finally convinced. "Should be enough," I repeat.

"Then let's not waste any more time!" Tim is already at the door, opening it with a flourish. Together, we step outside into the hospital grounds.

It's a good hospital, mostly consisting of proper huts erected in rows. The unit has been here for almost three years now, but it was only recently that they started replacing the tents with huts. Some tents are still up, but they are to be pulled down in favour of more huts soon as well. In between the huts, there are wide pathways and, where space allows, beds of flowers and vegetables, as I've already seen then in other hospitals (though my lack of talent in handling plants of all kinds has kept me away from them so far). Now, in early March, they still have a forlorn look about them, but I can already imagine how pretty they will look in summer.

A straight road leads away from the hospital, southwards, to the actual village of Étaples. To the east of the road, there's one hospital after the other, all lined up – ten in total, built in two rows. On the other side, the living quarters for the hospital staff are squeezed in between road and rail tracks. And behind the rail tracks, on a narrow strip of land bordering the river, are the Segregation and Detention Camps, the former being used to isolate men suffering from infectious diseases and the latter holding those having committed a crime or breaking one of the many army rules.

To the east and south of the hospitals are the living quarters for all soldiers in the camp. They close around Étaples in a half-circle, separated from the village by another set of train tracks. To the north, partly adjoining the hospitals, are the training grounds. And if you follow the road northwards, past the last hospital, there's the cemetery to your left and the mortuary to your right.

I only know any of this because Tim explains it to me quite patiently. To me, this whole camp hasn't been more than a confusing conglomeration of huts and tents and people so far, and only now, while he is pointing and explaining, do I recognize some sort of order in it,

"They don't use the training grounds as much as they used to," he is just saying. "Until last year, the soldiers were properly trained here, but now it's more of a transit camp that most don't stay in for very long before being transported onwards. They even built a second train station from scratch to keep up with the demand for trains. It's where the ambulance trains usually arrive as well."

I nod. I've seen that train station. "Why don't they use the training grounds anymore?" I ask. "I mean, if they are already established, it would make sense to use them, wouldn't it?"

"Because of the mutiny, of course," Tim retorts quite matter-of-factly.

Mutiny? I shoot him a quizzical look.

Tim raises an eyebrow at my unspoken question. Then he whistles softly. "So they managed to keep that under wraps. I didn't think they would…" he murmurs, sounding quite impressed.

"Tell!" I demand, giving him an impatient little nudge.

I halfway expect him to tease me because of my impatience, but instead, his face darkens. Some seconds pass before he finally starts to explain. "The soldiers hate Étaples and they hate their instructors even more. They're known as canaries because of their yellow armbands. Training camps are called _bull rings_ by the soldiers, and the training itself borders on harassment. They have to march for hours, through wind and weather. And the majority of instructors have never seen the front up close, which doesn't really make the men respect them all that much."

And who could blame them?

"There've always been incidents between officers and other ranks," Tim continues. "They executed a soldier back in 1916 because he freed one of his comrades from the punishment compound. It should have been four of them being executed, because they were all involved in the freeing, but three of them were Australians and the Australians don't shoot their troops. They only ones not to do it, by the way – did you know? Well, the fourth man was also Australian but serving with the New Zealanders and he paid for that mishap with his life."

I frown. That turned pretty dark, pretty fast.

"Well, and then there was a similar situation last September. A man had been arrested, causing some of his comrades to band together. It wasn't even so much about that arrest anymore. It was more of a… general discontent," Tim adds. "The Military Police tried to intervene but only made everything that much worse. Someone shot into the crowd and killed an NCO. There was no holding back after that. In the next few days, there were meetings and protests in the village, despite all troops being ordered to stay in their quarters. We were forbidden from leaving the hospitals as well, but of course the news reached us pretty quickly. They had to have the casualties of the mutiny treated somewhere, right?"

"How did they get things back under control?" I ask. Because when I look around, all of this might appear vaguely depressing, but there's no evidence of an ongoing mutiny.

"They sent in loyal troops on the fourth day. Officers, mostly, and elements of the Machine Gun Corps. Most mutineers gave up after that and those who didn't were arrested. From what I heard, they were punished severely. Hard labour for most of them and at least one seems to have been executed up in Boulogne," Tim answers. "It was outwardly over after that, but the grumbling didn't just stop from one day to the next. That's why they quietly turned this into a transit camp. It's easier to keep control when no one is here for any stretch of time. Fewer chances to form alliances."

"Do you know that I haven't heard anything about this before?" I remark pensively. "I was in Flanders in September and no word whatsoever about this mutiny reached us there."

"And that's how it should be, isn't it?" Tim retorts. "If this became well-known among the troops, the idea might catch on. And they don't have nearly enough officers to regain control if more elements of the army decided to mutineer. But look – we're here. Allow me to present the village of Étaples."

Étaples, it turns out, is a bleak, pokey, somewhat grubby place. Narrow houses press close to narrow streets, covered in grime and filth. The other sisters only ever talk about Étaples accompanied by a disdainful sniff, and while we walk through the village, I'm beginning to understand why.

Even the inhabitants scurry past, hardly even looking at us, which surprises me. So far, I've found the French to be mostly polite, a lot of them even friendly. If nothing else, we British army people with our army pay are good for trading with after all.

"It all seems rather… less than welcoming," I remark carefully as I follow Tim through one of the streets.

He shrugs. "The people, you mean? Well, can you blame them? Normally, this place has fewer than six thousand inhabitants. They say the camp has between eighty and a hundred thousand people living in it at any time. Just consider what that means for the locals. It's hardly surprising that they are less than enthused about our presence."

I nod slowly. I suppose I can see how our presence would feel akin to an invasion to them. And it's not very likely that they were asked for their permission before the powers that be decided to set up the British Army's base camp on French soil in this place.

"If they think you're making an effort, most of them become more approachable though," Tim amends. "After all, they're used to foreigners from before the war. Englishmen, of course, and even Yankees!"

"How come?" I wonder. I struggle a bit with imagining either English or US citizens coming to this place voluntarily.

Tim nods to our right. "Over there, on the other side of the river, is a popular seaside resort for rich Parisians and Englishmen. They call it _Côte d'Opale_ , the Opal Coast, because of the light. I reckon that's what drew the painters here. Étaples had a flourishing art colony before the war. Mostly populated by the English and Americans, as well as some artists from the English-speaking colonies."

He must have noticed my incredulity, because he flashes a grin at me. "I kid you not!" he assures. "Remember that every artist worth their mettle lives off air and love alone, so it's easy to see how the resorts along the coast were far too expensive for them to live in. The local fishermen's huts, however, were likely far cheaper to rent. And that's how _l'École d'Étaples_ came into being.

I shake my head lightly as I listen to him. I do believe him of course, but still, it's hard to imagine. "You know a lot about the area," I acknowledge.

Tim raises his shoulder in a shrug. "We've been here since May 1915. That's a bloody long time to spend in this cattle camp of an army base. I reckon it helped me, getting to know the area and the people and the history of the place. It can narrow down your outlook like nothing else if you're only ever surrounded by military all day," he explains pensively. Then he points to our right, "This way."

We walk around a corner and the narrow street widens into a rather ample square, lined with stone houses. In the middle of the square sits a prominent building, probably the village hall.

"The market square," Tim declares. "There's a market every Tuesday and Friday morning. You will be looking in vain for anything frivolous or luxurious, but you can get pretty much everything you need for daily life, even normal clothing and, naturally, all kinds of food. There's fruits and vegetables and fish, of course. After all, this used to be a fishing village before we invaded and turned it into a military base. Oh, and they slaughter the rabbits and pigeons right there while you wait."

He smirks and I shudder involuntarily. His smirk widens.

"Weren't you a theatre nurse? That sight shouldn't be disturbing you," he points out.

I shake my head "This is different." But it isn't. Not really.

Tim scoffs slightly, letting me know that he does not follow my reasoning, but he lets the topic slide. Instead, he steps out into the square. It's past market hours, but I detect several small shops in the houses along the square, and by the look of it, Tim didn't exaggerate. No luxury goods, but enough to settle normal daily requirements. Thus, I can not only top up my sewing kit and buy new writing paper, but I also get a bag of apples, because it has happened more than once that there's just too much work on the ward to take a break and yet, my stomach wants to be filled anyway. To be honest, I'm glad that I've regained my appetite at all after Flanders.

After handing his shoes over to the cobbler, Tim enters a small drug store and buys several pots of Vaseline and pomade to style his hair – he's a _bit_ vain, Tim is. Finally, he disappears into a liquor store with a wink and a grin, and when he reappears moments later, he is carrying a brown paper bag.

Our break is nearing its end already and as we still have to make our way back, we hurry into the direction of the hospital. In a turn of surprising gallantry, Tim even takes the bag of apples from me, only to swing it back and forth pointedly for the entire way.

We've left Étaples and the big quay along the river Canche long past us, have passed headquarters, crossed below the rail tracks, walked past the medical supplies depot and have just reached the office of the army postal service, when Tim gives me a sudden nudge with his elbow.

"Look. Over there," he demands and points ahead of us. I follow his gaze and realize what he's talking about.

In front of us is a gaggle of chattering young women. They are clad in the uniforms of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, blue dresses and white aprons with a red cross emblazoned on it. As usual though, it's their head scarves that make them easily identifiable as VADs.

We trained nurses wear a flared white veil, not unlike a nun's veil. The VADs, on the other hand, have close-fitting handkerchief veils covering their heads and tied behind their neck. From what I gathered, this didn't used to be so well-regulated in the past and it lead to no little disgruntlement among nurses when more and more VADs turned up wearing the nurses' veil. And seeing as a lot of English nursing sisters are not enthused by having to work alongside barely trained volunteers anyway, the army ended up banning VADs from wearing the flared veil of the _real_ nurses. It sounds pernickety alright, but apparently, it did a reasonable job of calming tempers.

Tim leans a little closer towards me and murmurs, "Fresh meat."

He's grinning and I suppress a smile as well, much as I am in agreement with him. They are so excited, so wide-eyed, so utterly clueless, these VADs, that they can really only be fresh meat.

There must have been a time, back in Taplow with Polly and Betty, when I was the same. It seems awfully far away.

The VADs in front of us start giggling suddenly. As the flock of them parts, I see two officers coming towards us, probably the reason for their excitement. I recognize them as doctors from our hospitals. It's evident how much they enjoy the attention, even as they try to act worldly and suave.

When one of them notices Tim and me, he presses his lips together tightly. The other one doesn't look as relaxed either, all of a sudden. "Sister Blythe," he greets tersely.

"Doctor," I return the greeting with a polite nod. Tim salutes, but the doctors hardly take the time to return the salute before they hurry on.

Over my shoulder, I watch them hasten away. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were embarrassed about something.

"They're going _paris-plaging_ ," Tim informs me. There's contempt in his voice.

I just move to ask what _that_ 's supposed to mean now, when another voice cuts into our conversation. "Rilla? Is that really you?"

Slowly, I turn my head. In front of me, in all her golden glory, stands Persis Ford.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Mademoiselle from Armentières' from the 19_ _th_ _century (source unknown)._


	40. To paint their fav'rite scene

_March 21_ _st_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France – Le Touquet, France_

 **To paint their fav'rite scene**

Ken once likened Persis to a mule, and it is indeed with all the stubbornness of a mule that she has decided to become part of my life.

She has been posted to the English hospital right next to mine, _No. 26 General Hospital_ , and even though her work there must be hard and her shifts are longer than mine, she still comes to see me regularly during the next two or three weeks. Sometimes she turns up in the hospital – she is a great favourite with my patients on the femur ward – and even more often, we share tea and talks in my corner of the sisters' quarters. I have to admit that it did surprise me a little how easy it is to talk to Persis.

 _Why_ she does it, I'm still not quite sure, but as the weeks pass I wonder about it less and less. I think I like Persis. She can be too loud sometimes and too exhausting and too _much,_ but she also has an amazing energy, and life seems lighter with her around. Another advantage of Persis' pronounced mulishness is that, between her and Tim and Miss Talbot, hardly an hour passes without the presence of a benevolent person. And I've found that it does me good not to be alone. It stops me from both worrying and missing Ken too much.

Ken, by the way, was less than enthused about his little sister having wrangled a transfer to France. He seems relieved at knowing her to be near me, though. Apparently, he still somehow believes she can't look after herself and I am somehow qualified to do it for her, when – truth be told – it feels more like her looking out for me at the moment.

In any case, Persis apparently managed to swap her half-day off long enough for it to coincide with mine this week. Which is why she is currently waiting for me outside the femur ward, impatiently dragging at a cigarette. When she sees me leaving the ward, she drops the cigarette and grinds it out under her heel.

"So, what do you want to do this afternoon?" I ask as I step next to her.

An elaborate shrug is the answer. "I figured Timmy might be able to recommend something," she announces and directs a winning smile past my shoulder. When I turn my head slightly, I see Tim coming to join us.

"Sure, Timmy's happy to," he assures with a small bow. "What are you in the mood for, then?"

"What are our options?" Persis shoots back immediately.

Thoughtfully, Tim taps a finger against his chin. "Well, if you walk north, there's Camiers. About an hour on foot. If you go further, you come to Hardelot, a seaside resort. _Très chic_! There's a rest home for nurses there, in a house belonging to Princess Louise, and _Le Pré-Catelan_ occupies another small chateau. It's a café and restaurant – a favourite with nurses and officers. Naturally, I've never set foot in it, but it's said to be a good place to while away the hours. Although…" Tim hesitates, "The walk to Hardelot is a good three hours. If you don't manage to get a lift there or at least borrow two bicycles, it's probably too far for a single afternoon."

"Evidently," Persis retorts drily, raising both eyebrows. I have little doubt, though, that for our next afternoon off she'll make sure to organise a lift to Hardelot.

"In that case, I recommend going to Paris-Plage,"Tim continues easily. "You take the route to Étaples, cross over the Canche and walk through the pine wood towards the sea. Takes about an hour. Theoretically, I have never been there either, Paris-Plage being reserved for officers, but in practice the river doesn't _always_ carry a lot of water…" He smirks suggestively.

Persis, however, frowns at him. "Paris-Plage?" Then, translating, "Beach of Paris?"

Tim nods. "A seaside resort, same as Hardelot. Pretty. Expensive," he explains. "The more well-off citizens of Paris discovered it for themselves sometime in the last century, hence the name. It's actually called Le Touquet."

Instantly, Persis's face brightens. "Le Touquet? Really? I've been there! Before the war, with Ken and our parents," she exclaims, then adding towards Tim, "Ken is my brother."

"Is he, then?" he replies and it's quite evident from his amused expression that he had that figured on his own already. Persis, however, takes no notice. Instead, she's fumbling at the collar of her uniform, finally pulling free a long chain. At its end, there's a finely-wrought golden locket that she flips open and shows to Tim.

"Here, these are my parents. And this is Ken," in pointing at both sides of the open locket.

Tim whistles softly. "Looks run in your family, don't they? Your brother is a head-turner, there's no –" Abruptly, he breaks off.

For a moment, confusion registers on Persis' face, soon to give way to sudden realization. She considers him through narrowed eyes for several seconds, before giving a slight shrug and turning her gaze away. Tim takes a deep breath.

"Don't you ever tell him that!" Persis demands meanwhile, obviously already back in her element. "He's already much too full of himself anyway. Isn't he, Rilla?" She looks to me for confirmation, before explaining for Tim's benefit, "He was wounded last year and Rilla nursed him through it."

"Did she, then?" asks Tim, casting a meaningful glance my way. He, too, seems back to being relaxed, because when I give him a warning glare in return, he just grins at me. I turn my head, watching Persis tuck away her locket.

"You do know we're not allowed to wear jewellery, do you?" I enquire, primarily to move the conversation away from the subject of Ken.

In answer, Persis pulls a frightful grimace. "Yes, you'd better believe that the hag of a matron back in Newcastle explained that to me in every detail! That's why I'm hiding it. But I won't take it off, no matter what they say!" she announces, clearly indignant. "The locket was a present from my mother and I _will_ wear it if I want to, rules be damned! I mean, sure, I would have preferred to have her Claddagh ring, but she already have that one to Ken – whatever he's supposed to do with it."

I am suddenly very aware of the chain around my own neck, at the end of which hangs that very ring, safely hidden beneath my uniform. Awkwardly clearing my throat, I can feel Tim's interested gaze on me.

Inelegantly closing that particular subject with an "as long as no one sees it…", I then attempt for something more upbeat when declaring, "And besides, we'd better get moving! It's quite the walk, after all."

The walk, however, turns out to be quite pleasant. Once we have left Étaples behind us and crossed the river, the path leads through a pretty pine wood that in late March is already hinting at spring. Seeing as Persis regales me with stories about her debutante days in Toronto for the entire way, it ends up being an entertaining hour. Even the weather has decided to be accommodating. Spring is evidently just around the corner.

As far as Paris-Plage is concerned, Tim didn't exaggerate. Elegant houses line wide streets, there are fine restaurants and even after three and a half years of war, the stores offer all the luxuries that are not to be had in Étaples.

All this, however, pales in comparison to the beach.

When we reach the promenade, I am momentarily lost for words. At my feet are yards and yards of what is the whitest, finest sand I've ever seen. The sea is but a sliver of blue in the distance. And above it all shimmers the light, luminous and glowing. _Côte d'Opale_ – the Opal Coast. The sight certainly lives up to the name.

"Pretty, isn't it?" asks Persis smugly, quite as if all this was her creation.

She does not wait for me to agree, just grabs my hand and pulls me down from the promenade towards the beach.

"It must have been ten years since we were here," Persis remarks as we stroll through the soft sand. "I was such a silly thing and Ken revelled in riling me up. He chased me down this whole beach, just because he _could_! I still remember how utterly mortified I was…" She falls silent. Her sigh is infused with a wistfulness that is rather unlike her.

"You miss him, don't you?" I ask, feeling a pang of sympathy. I know a thing or two about missing Ken myself, after all.

"Dreadfully," Persis admits. "And it's only him! You have three brothers involved in this war. I hardly know how you stand it."

I would like to say that it gets easier with time. But it doesn't. Not really.

"And yet at times, I can get _so_ mad at him," Persis continues with a frown, "For leaving in the first place and forcing me to worry. I know it's probably unfair, but I can't help what I feel, can I?"

Slowly, I shake my head. "I know what you mean. I wasn't very happy with Walter either, when he had them post him back to a frontline unit. I much preferred him safely back in England," I admit, pressing my lips together.

It's been a month since Walter returned to France and I dislike the thought of it as much as on the first day.

"Ken's also a step closer to his return," Persis reports dismally. "They transferred him to a convalescent hospital for officers about two weeks ago. Somewhere up north."

In Matlock Bath, to be precise. But I don't say that.

"Do you know, I always had this pretty little picture of our future in my head. Ken marries Selina and I marry a handsome stranger and together, the four of us are the best friends in the whole world, forever and ever," Persis remarks after a short pause. Her voice is distant, her gaze turned inwards.

Then she raises her head and look at me. There's something cynical about her expression and suddenly, she reminds me a lot of her brother. "Well, everyone knows how that turned out," she adds, sounding bitter. "Ken told you about him and Selina?"

"He… mentioned it," I admit cautiously.

Persis nods sharply. "Selina and I have been best friends ever since I can remember, and still I was so _unbelievably_ mad at her for breaking off their engagement. The entire time, I imagined Ken sitting on some trench, reading her letter and having his heart broken. Then I got a letter from him and he was all noble and understanding and asked me to forgive her. And suddenly, I was mad at _him_ as well. Because – and this might sound completely self-absorbed – that wasn't the plan! The plan was for them to marry and live happily ever after. The plan was _not_ for them to break up."

She stamps a foot at the sand below, clearly frustrated. White sand flurries in the shimmering light.

"I could imagine it's not easy to keep these feelings from slipping away during a separation as long as this. People change and so do feelings," I carefully point out.

Persis shoots me an accusing look. "You sound like Ken!"

Then she sighs, raising a hand. "Sorry, sorry," she quickly apologises. "I suppose I haven't yet fully gotten over the fact that my pretty picture will never be reality now. And that's even though I did forgive Selina – I think I even meant it. At least I see now that this wasn't only her fault."

"Whose then?" I ask.

"Ken's. Or at least, his fault as much as hers," Persis answers. "Selina and I always read his letters to each other and somehow… it began a year ago. That's when the tone of his letters to Selina started to change. He became more – distant. As if he had started turning away from her long before Andy entered her life."

It's been a year since Beardless and Moustache walked into my tent at the CCS in Aubigny.

"Andy is Selina's fiancé?" I query, primarily to say something harmless.

"Husband," Persis amends. "They got married back in January. I wasn't there. Of course not. And that's despite us always having promised each other that we'd be bridesmaids at our respective weddings."

Something dark passes over her face. It doesn't matter how angry she was at Selina – it's evident how much this weighs on her.

But it's just seconds until Persis squares her shoulder, seemingly calling herself to order. "But Andy is amazing, I have to give her that. One of the nicest people I know. Alas, he'd better be! If Selina had left my brother for an imbecile, I would never have forgiven her," she admits, her mouth twisting into a wonky smile.

"And if she loves him, she can hardly be reproached for that, can she?" I ask, keeping my voice as kind as possible.

"I suppose not," sighs Persis. "And she must love him very much, considering how she had to fight for that wedding. I never knew Selina could fight like this. She even stood up to her mother. If there was one person angrier than I was, it was Selina's mother. She was furious!"

"Perhaps she was just worried?" I wonder. "Ken mentioned that Selina's husband – Andy… that he's blind?"

Persis moves her head, partly nodding, partly shaking it no. "He was exposed to quite a lot of gas, and it took his sight away. It's not that he sees nothing at all, but it's not much. Just silhouettes, movements, different shades of black and white and grey." She shudders involuntarily. "Being blind must be scary, don't you think?"

I nod slowly. I have cared for too many blind men not to know that there's nothing as life-changing as the loss of eyesight. Humans are visual beings. When we can't see, we're helpless, and I've never liked being that. Neither does Persis, I'm sure.

Letting my gaze wander, over the houses, the beach, the sea, the air, I quietly ponder that the thought of never seeing any of this ever again is too awful to think it through to the end.

I look down at the sand, and there, a little to the left of my feet, is a seashell, half-hidden by grains of sand. It is almost white in colour and washed out by the sea. I bend down to retrieve it, brushing the sand away, and gaze at it for a moment.

Just as I start to straighten again, there's Persis' voice above me, "Hey! Didn't you just lecture me on the wearing of jewellery while in uniform?" And then, before I have time to react, I feel her fingers against my neck, reaching for the delicate golden chain.

I know that I have to do _something_ , but I am completely frozen as Persis pulls the chain free from under my uniform. It takes mere seconds until she holds it between her fingers. The ring lies in the palm of her hand.

"That looks like mum's ring!" she exclaims in surprise, bending closer to inspect the ring more thoroughly. Then, abruptly, she lets go of it.

"That _is_ mum's ring," she realizes, turning to look at me through narrowed eyes. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

Now would be the moment for a convincing story. But my mind is blank.

Persis seems to take my silence for the confirmation it is. She nods, slowly at first, then progressively faster. And then, very suddenly, a grin spreads on her face. A wide, triumphant grin that is so like Ken's it almost hurts.

"I _knew_ it!" she announces. "I knew it this entire time! Ken would never have taken their separation as calmly as he did if he hadn't already fallen in love with another woman as well. He's much too vain. And you were a prime suspect right from the beginning."

"Why's that?" I ask, not without caution. First and foremost, however, I'm relieved she's taking this so well.

"He mentioned you in his letters. Nothing major, just the odd throwaway line. What was remarkable about it though was that you featured in his letters to mum and dad and me, but never in those to Selina. It was that silence, more than anything, that made me suspicious. And I was right, wasn't I?" It's evident from her pleased expression how much she enjoys being right.

"Yes, you were right," I confirm amiably. Persis nods, deeply satisfied.

"I do maintain that you could have told me sooner though! I know that Ken enjoys keeping his secrets, but I gave you more than enough opportunities to tell me," she adds. _Now_ there's something decidedly accusing in her tone.

I raise both hands in hopes of mellowing her. "I didn't know how to," I admit. "Selina is your best friend and, well… that picture you described earlier will never become real now."

"No, probably not. But it wouldn't have become real anyway," Persis answers, sounding mostly composed now. "Besides, I can always paint a new picture, can't I? And I'm beginning to think that you're going to fit in there nicely."

Which, coming from Persis, is akin to an accolade.

"I think I would like that," I reply carefully.

"Of course you do!" exclaims Persis with typical conviction. Regarding me thoughtfully for several seconds, she then shakes her head slightly. "I have to say that, between Selina and you, my brother has shown better taste than I ever would have given him credit for."

And then she's laughing – unashamed, carefree, blithe – and as it so often does in Persis' presence, life feels a little easier.

"Come on!" she calls out, grabbing my hand. "I remember the hotel up there. They used to have excellent champagne. Ken gave me a glass of it all those years back and I was hopelessly tipsy. Shall we have a look if they still have a bottle of it somewhere?"

And without further ado, she pulls me into the direction of an elegant hotel up on the promenade.

Persis, of course, being Persis, manages to wrangle a bottle of said champagne from one of the hotel personnel – 'sommelier' Persis calls him –as easily as she convinces a group of officers to pay for it and then organises a lift back to camp for both of us.

If the journey to Le Touquet was a nice stroll, the journey back, whizzing along the roads in an automobile, certainly has its charm as well.

Our driver is polite, Persis is cheerful, the champagne still tingles pleasantly and the evening sun shines benevolently down from a clear sky. The day, in short, is nicer than many a day that came before.

If not… yes, if not for the tiny voice in my head, warily whispering how this is all a bit _too_ good. Too good to last long. Too good to be real.

I've learned to trust that voice.

And indeed – the moment our car passes beneath the rail bridge and turns into the road leading towards the hospitals, it becomes terribly clear that _something_ must have happened. The entire road is blocked by ambulances and whole convoys of wounded soldiers.

"Do you know what happened?" I ask of our driver while our car is stuck behind two ambulances.

"I don't, sorry," he replies, voice strained.

It takes minutes until we finally reach No. 1 CGH. Once we do, we are welcomed by a similar sight. Ambulances are parked every which way. The ground is covered in wounded men. Standing, sitting, lying on stretchers. In-between, doctors and nurses and orderlies hurry past.

"What _is_ this?" I hear Persis's voice behind me. She must have followed me here instead of going to her own hospital.

"Looks like an offensive," I answer, matter-of-fact. My mind though, is already trying to sort through the chaos, to assess the situation, to get an idea of the work that awaits. I've seen this often enough already.

It's more by chance, then, that I look at Persis. She is pale, her eyes wide open. "It's alright," I try to comfort her. "Chances are, this looks worse than it is. We had days like these all the time up in the CCS."

"That may be," she replies, voice toneless, "But _this is no CCS_."

Her words hit me with a might that takes my breath away.

Because she is right.

This might be a normal sight in a CCS behind the frontline and my head, used to it, already went to work quite instinctively, deciding what needed to be done and how to do it. But this is no CCS – this is a General Hospital. We receive our patients in orderly, numbered transports. They are washed, fed, dressed in clean clothing, their wounds already taken care of. This is how it has been, this is how it is supposed to be.

These men, however, clad in dirty, torn uniforms, their wounds dressed with makeshift bandages, caked in mud and blood, do not belong in a General Hospital. That they are here anyway can only mean one thing – medical care up front has collapsed. We _are_ a CCS now.

With one hand I stop a Scottish sergeant who hobbles past us on two crutches, pulling one leg along.

"What happened?" I ask, managing to sound calm, even as I fight down the panic rising within me.

Very slowly, the sergeant turns his head. His eyes are dull, his voice monotonous. "They have broken through everywhere. We are withdrawing."

I lower my arm. My gaze falls on Persis' face. There's horror in her eyes, a helpless, nameless fright. And then my thoughts turn to Walter and Shirley, somewhere at the front, and the cold hand of fear closes itself around my heart.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When I leave the world behind' from 1915 (lyrics and music by Irving Berlin)._

 _Princess Louise is Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll (1848-1939), fourth daughter of Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom. She was the only one of her siblings to marry one of her mother's subjects. Her husband was John Campbell, later 9_ _th_ _Duke of Argyll, who served as 4_ _th_ _Governor General to Canada from 1878 to 1883. The couple had no children. Louise was known to be 'unconventional' and a talented artist, being especially drawn to sculpting. During the Great War, she opened her French holiday home in Hardelot as a rest home for nurses from all over the Empire._


	41. Enemy is on them

_March 26_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France_

 **Enemy is on them**

I lie on my back. Staring into the dark. Waiting.

I've never seen such darkness before I came to France. At home, there was always a light somewhere, a lamp, a candle. Even in England, where Zeppelin attacks have provoked a widespread blackout in recent years, there was always some glimmer to be seen. Here though, the blackout is complete.

My eyes are open, but wherever I turn them, everything I see is blackness. Thick, impervious blackness.

And through the dark walks a long row of men. Men I've seen die. Their uniforms are manifold and their wounds even more so. It's the wounds, more than anything, that I remember. Faces, though, and names, I do not know. They remain without face or name, these men. You don't ask for a name when it's a matter of seconds and you don't look into their faces when their life flows out of them through a torn artery.

Now, looking back, I wish I would have done it. Asked. Looked. So that they can have a face and a name at least, the men marching in their silent procession through the night.

They always said that we can't lose this war because the dead fight side by side with the living. An army of fallen that cannot be beat. That's how it was written in the reports of journalists, the speeches of politicians, the poems of bards. It makes for a pretty picture if one doesn't look too closely. For the fallen soldiers that march before my eyes do not look like they could win another battle.

Besides – what do the dead owe to us, who we are living?

Our problems don't concern them. They have gone to another place. Let us hope for them that it is a better place than this one.

Movement fills the darkness. Hurried steps, a rustling noise, the click of a door. The premonition of light. A muffled voice, "Get up. The transports are coming."

They often come at night, the transports of wounded. The darkness offers them protection. And because of that, it doesn't matter that we already have a full day's work on the wards behind us, that the nights are too short and the darkness too black for sleep to come. When the transports arrive, it's all hands on deck.

At the other end of the hut, a lamp is lit. It exudes a dim half-light, around which the blackness lurks like an animal, ready to pounce. Shadows move against the wall.

I fold back my blanket, put one foot on the ground, then the other. My boots are next to my camp bed, and my veil and apron await. We hardly ever take off our uniforms anymore. It costs time to get dressed and time is precious when every short moment has to be snatched away from shifts and transports.

Besides, the last time I was truly _clean_ is but a memory in some distant corner of my mind. It must have been in London, in all likelihood. London was two and a half months ago.

I suppress a yawn and silently curse the dead for having kept me awake with their never-ending procession. Tim has suggested I count them, instead of sheep. But I already know that their number grows with each night. I don't need to count them for that.

Maybe I will try anyway. The counting. Maybe then, they will leave.

Though, to be honest – I prefer the dead to the saw. They disappear in the light. And they are silent. The dead always are.

I shake my head, as if trying to shake it awake, call my tired limbs to order. The crisp night air helps a little and yet, I am stumbling after my colleagues more than I walk. Over the street, towards the hospital.

The first transports have already arrived.

For a moment, I hover at the side, taking in the situation around me. I prefer to have an idea of what awaits. It makes me feel as if not _all_ control is lost.

Miss Talbot hurries past. When she sees me, she slows down for a second, just long enough to give me my orders for tonight. "You'll assist Dr Wills with triage."

She is gone before I can even open my mouth to reply. Instead, the memory of Not-Dead appears from out the shadows. Suddenly, but not unexpectedly.

He is always a bit more – _solid_ than the others. The light can't chase him away either. Maybe it's because he is not dead. At least not that I know of (or ever will know).

To triage the patients is to classify them. We've borrowed it from the French, the word. _Trier_. It means to separate or to select. Which category a patient is sorted into decides how soon he will be treated and what kind of treatment he will receive. Make a mistake in triaging them and it can mean death for one who might otherwise have lived. Not-Dead is the only necessary proof it needs.

Which might also be the reason why I welcome the memory of him in moments like these. He never lets me forget, not for a second, the consequences of a wrong decision. As long as I remember Not-Dead, I remember the cost of a mistake.

I find Dr Wills among the newly-arrived patients. When he sees me, he gives a curt nod. I know what he's thinking. I'm one of the nurses who has been with a CCS close to the front before coming to this hospital, which should neither be close to the front nor a CCS and yet, in the past days, has become both. If nothing else, he can at least be sure that, whatever I will see here, I have already seen before.

"We're sorting into categories A to D," he informs me as I come to stand next to him. I know the categories. They're the same ones we used in the CCS.

Category A are deep abdominal or chest wounds, complex skull or thigh fractures, injuries to the spine and joint wounds.

Category B are wounds and injuries to the head or face.

Category C are all other seriously wounded patients without further complications.

Category D are light injuries that require no timely operation

It depends on the category where we send them. A and B have to be operated on as quickly as possible. For it has to be quick if they are to live. Too many of them die anyway. Chest wounds especially we see very seldom – not because they don't happen but because the men usually die while still on the field. Abdominal wounds they don't often survive either. Head is nasty as well.

Those in category C have better chances. They, too, are sent to the operating theatre when possible, but only once all A and B cases have been treated. They have to wait, the C patients, until we have time for them.

The wounded in category D, on the other hand, we don't even treat most of the time. They're the majority of what we call the walking wounded. We give them food, clothing and put them in the next train towards one of the big harbours along the coast. They will be cared for in England. A category D wound, in these days, is a fast pass to Blighty. Everyone wants a Blighty wound.

Dr Wills is quick and assured in his work. I know that he served close to the frontline for quite some time. At an Advanced Dressing Station, to be precise. It's as close as you get. If there is little I haven't seen yet, there's nothing that could possibly surprise Dr Wills.

Often, it takes him just seconds to survey a man and come to a decision. Some patients carry an early diagnosis with them on their Field Medical Card, scribbled down by some doctor not far enough in the east. Most of them come without one though – medical care closer to the front has mostly broken down, with the majority of CCSs closed down and evacuated. Almost all patients reach us directly from the field, some of them not having seen a doctor even from afar before coming here.

In case of the patients without a pre-diagnosis, Dr Wills has me jot down his assessment on a Field Medical Card. All of them, whether already in possession of a diagnosis or not, get sorted into categories. And then they're taken away to where they can hopefully receive the treatment they need.

Often enough, the whole process takes less than a minute.

But they arrive faster than we could ever process them. Dozens of patients become hundreds. Examine, write down, send on. Again and again and again. I have no idea how much time passes, not even what time it _is_. Midnight? I'd rather not know, if I'm being honest.

At times, when the number of waiting men grows too high, Dr Wills relegates the light cases over to me and I scribble Ds down on their cards, sometimes the odd C. Whenever I have the feeling they might belong to a higher category, I hand them back to him. It's one thing to work quickly. Knowing one's own limits is another. Not-Dead is a quiet, persistent memory to what mine are.

And before even the fifth patient has passed through my hands, all my lofty resolutions from the hours of darkness have been turned into thin air by the light of reality. I do not ask for their names. I do not remember their faces. In the long queue of wounded, the individual is reduced to his injury. I know that they have names, family, stories, memories. But for me, in this moment, they are just a broken bone, a flesh wound, a patch of burned skin.

There's nothing on this earth that robs the individual off his identity as reliably as war does. In war, the past is irrelevant and the future uncertain. And what is left of us, without what was and what will be?

I am vaguely aware how dangerous that train of thought is. It's how generals think. If you deprive the individual man of what makes him unique, he becomes part of the crowd. And how much easier is it to put the lives of a nameless crowd of people on the line, compared to looking a man in the eye and sending him to his death?

They look like a crowd though – like a _mass_. A khaki-coloured mass, blending into the darkness at its fringes. I raise my head, let my gaze pass over them. An incalculable number of men. Tired, dirty, defeated. Pale faces shining in the dark. In between them, stretchers carrying the severe cases.

I lower my head again. Take a deep breath. One, and another. This is the moment when the mass of them becomes threatening. The moment when it is easier to just look at the wound in front of you. One after the other. Always one after the other.

A broken arm. They break often, arms do. In normal times, we would keep him here to set and treat the fracture before it's on to a ship for him. But these aren't normal times. How we sort them into categories always depends in part on how many they are, and how few we are in comparison. So it's a D for him and the warning to be careful so that the bone doesn't shift, and I send Broken Arm on his way.

The next one. He's still standing, but I don't like the look of him. Something funny about the way he breathes. No visible injury, but there doesn't have to be one. Gas, maybe, or a broken rib having pierced the lung. Something internal. I signal for Dr Wills. Frowning, he bends closer. Seconds later, the man has an A and a secure spot in the operating theatre.

One after the other.

It becomes a rut, if one is not careful. When hours pass, when one patient blends into the other, when wounds start to blur. When the body feels numb from tiredness and the head sluggish from exhaustion. It's these moments when it's important to pull oneself together, to try and ignore one's own state of being, as best as possible.

There's also that one moment that comes every night, inevitably. It's the moment when it seems _impossible_. The night too short, the patients too many, the wounds too severe. This, too, is something one has to push far away. Once despair has taken over, it's incredibly hard to fight back. It's easier just to function. Don't think. Just carry on, until there's nothing left to carry on for anymore.

Because as surely as that moment comes, it always passes in the end. Eventually, there must come a point when one looks up and realizes that this, then, was the last patient. Sometimes, it comes earlier, that point, sometimes later, when the sun is already glimpsing above the horizon. But it always comes. It has to.

Not that the work is done then. It's just a step. But when the first step is done, one can turn to the next step, and the next. One after the other. Always one after the other.

We had a lot of walking wounded tonight, which is why my feet carry me over to the dressing tent. It's where we care for those that cannot stay while they are waiting to be transported onwards. In the meantime, they can get food here, clothing, dressings. A touch of kindness in this unkind place.

The second I enter the tent, I am drafted into ladling out tea. It's easy work, which is good, because those parts of my body that don't hurt have turned completely numb by now. It's also bad, because the easier the task, the easier it is to think. I don't like thinking much anymore.

At the very least, my new task gives me opportunity to bring back my resolutions from earlier on the night. (Has it really only been a few hours?) While I stand behind a big kettle and ladle tea into their bowls, I take a moment to look at them. Look at the face of every man in front of me.

What I see there almost makes me wish I hadn't looked.

I've seen every kind of emotion displayed on the faces of my patients. Some were good – gratefulness, relief, even joy. Some were anything but – fear, pain, despair. But there's something different about the men coming into our hospital these days.

They look broken. _Defeated_.

I've treated patients coming from the fighting along the Somme, have cared for survivors of Verdun and the wounded from the Arras offensive, of which Vimy Ridge as a part. And Passchendaele. Of course.

But all these battles, how high their price may have been in the end, weren't total failures. More often than not, it requires an optimist to see something positive in them, but when you hear often enough about how Vimy was a great success, about how significant land gains were made during the Battle of the Somme, about how Verdun had heroically been ripped back from the enemy's hand, about how Passchendaele was strategically so very important, it's possible to start believing in it.

No one, not the most optimistic person on this earth, could ever claim there's anything positive about the fighting of the last few days. At least no one who is not a German.

The offensive itself didn't come as a surprise. There's always an offensive in the spring – it's just a question of which side starts it. Last year, it was us. This year, it's them. So far, so predictable.

What filled us with wide-eyed disbelief at first and then, later, with a cold, slimy kind of fear, is the horrible effectiveness with which the Germans are advancing. Less than a week has passed since it began. Their gains are many miles. Our losses are many thousands.

Along with the countless of wounded, our troops are retreating as well, westwards. Back, back, _back_. And the Germans follow, driving them along, beating gaps into their lines time and time again.

The signs point firmly towards retreat. And there's no knowing when the retreat can be stopped – or where.

The blood-soaked fields of the Somme have already been ploughed up once more. Only this time, in the other direction. Those few miles that our soldiers took from the enemy during months of fighting in 1916, paid for with the highest of losses, fell back into enemy hands in but a few short days. It's almost too much to comprehend. It's almost too absurd to believe.

One look into the eyes of the men coming from these battlefields, and it's clear that one has to believe. The horrors they have seen. The pain they have suffered. But never once have they been beaten this decisively, this inevitably. That is what is evident in every single face. Defeat.

"Thank you, Sister," murmurs one of the men as I hand him his tea. His right arm is in a sling, causing him to reach for his tea with his left hand, a clumsy movement. I pull up my smile, from where I have stored it for moments like these, but he doesn't respond to it. Instead, he stares down at his tea for several seconds before taking a first, cautious sip.

"Up front, we drink tea from the same bowl in which we cook our field rations," he remarks pensively. "The tea always tastes of onions. Tea shouldn't taste of onions, Sister."

"This tea doesn't," I assure. What else could I possibly say?

The soldier nods slowly. "Thank God," he says quietly.

"No need to drag God into this," the man behind him interjects. He has no visible dressing, but his eyes have a nasty red colour about them that points towards poison gas.

Arm Sling doesn't even turn to look at his comrade. He just takes another sip, then shuffles off, intently peering at his tea as if he could see the answers in there. Answers to question none of us dare to ask.

"Did you know that God is German, Sister?" asks Red Eye, while taking two steps forward. His tone is easy, almost conversational, but beneath the redness, his eyes consider me sharply.

I ladle out some tea for him, but don't answer. He'll explain it to me either way.

And he does indeed continue after mere seconds. "Have you had a look at the weather recently? When have we ever had weather as glorious as this? At Arras, we had to fight against sleet and snow. And in Flanders… have you ever been to Flanders, Sister?"

I nod curtly as I hand him his tea. "Last year." It needs no other words.

And yes, as he accepts his tea, I notice a small change in his demeanour. He's not the first one I've seen this in, either. It's an almost imperceptible recognition of someone who has been through the same kind of hell. This, at least, is something we have in common, Red Eye and I.

But he doesn't say another word on the matter. "Whenever we start an offensive, we have the weather against us as well as the Hun," he explains instead. "And then it's the Hun starting an offensive and what happens to the weather? Dry and warm. You don't get more ideal conditions than this in the battle plans of our generals."

He has a point. The weather has indeed been glorious during the past few days. It jars with everything else that is happening. As if the sun itself was taunting us, from its safe, lofty place up in the treacherous sky.

This is what ants must feel like. Ants, working tirelessly, struggling on for something that can be taken from them in but a second from a power they cannot fight.

It's in the nature of the ant that it always carries on regardless.

For me, insignificant ant that I probably truly am, this offensive means exactly that. Carry on. I'm not so egotistical to think about it very often, but some days ago, I did realize, not without wonder, that the German attack has smashed the last bits of my so carefully laid-out plan.

That I didn't drop everything and turn my back on the CAMC the moment I set foot into Étaples was done due some sort of hope in Zachary or Miss Talbot being able to get the plan back on track and me transferred to England. Naturally, I knew better even then, but what else is hope but the irrational belief in something against better judgment?

When better judgement took over and I was just starting to get used to the thought of hanging up my veil prematurely and permanently in order to wear a very different kind of veil, Persis turned up. I stayed for her. Because she is important to Ken and Ken is important to me and, in inscrutable logic, that means she is important to me as well.

And then, just when it was starting to look as if I could leave despite Persis, the offensive began. Now I can't leave. I mean, I _could_ , possibly, but I _can't_. Not as long as there are still the men with their broken eyes. I am stuck here, however long it may take.

If I am being honest with myself, it might not even be long anymore. The _end_ has never felt this close since it was averted once before in the autumn of 1914. Just as it was then, it's the wrong kind of end though.

I suppose the thought should make me despair.

But every time I think of the end, that's everything I can think of. The end. Finished. _Over_. What does it matter, then, if it's their end or ours, as long as it is finally over?

What would even happen, if the Germans were to win? Whatever would happen, it can hardly be worse than what we've suffered through anyway, every single day, for almost four years now.

At night, when I let my dead march, I can think of no more horrible fate than the one we are currently living anyway. The dead, in any case, don't care about who will win this war. They only care about when it will be over.

And who knows more about the end than those who are dead?

"Maybe God isn't really with the Germans," I therefore suggest. "Maybe He is only opposed to this war. Maybe He just wants it to be over – and someone has to win it, after all."

Even while I speak, I realize I had better kept quiet. It's one thing to _think_ it, in the dark of the night – for let us be honest, the words of the dead in my head are really just my own thoughts. It's quite another to say it out loud, in the light of a beginning day.

But Red Eye just looks at me. Thoughtfully, almost speculatively. Then he shakes his head, very slowly.

"See, and this is where you are wrong, Sister. There will be no winners. A war like this cannot be won. No one wins this war. We all lost it years ago."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Here's to the land we love, Boys' from 1914 (lyrics by Victor Herbert, music by Henry M. Blossom)._


	42. The Yanks are coming

_April 11_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France_

 **The Yanks are coming**

"You promised to explain these contraptions to me some time," a voice accuses from my left.

Slowly, I turn my head.

"Persis," I say, "What are you doing here?" Without waiting for an answer, I turn back again. Her footsteps follow me through the station.

"I'm on my break," she informs me, sounding almost snippy.

I tilt my head back, and hold it that way for a moment or two, before letting it fall forward again. A nod, with goodwill. "Shouldn't you be resting? _Sleeping_?" I ask. My tired mind doesn't see why she'd want to be here during her severely rationed free time. Even more so, since breaks have become a rarity in recent weeks. We're much more likely to pull double shifts than getting even one measly hour off. Half-days and _leave_ are cancelled outright.

"No, I _don't_ want to sleep," answers Persis. Her voice is forceful on the surface, but when one listens closely, there's something else hidden beneath… it's almost controlled and yet it sounds slightly – hysterical?

I cast a critical gaze at her over my shoulder. She holds herself upright, chin raised, but there are dark smudges under her eyes, the usually rose-coloured cheeks are pale, the face thin. Whether she wants to sleep or not, she has the look of someone in dire need of it.

But then, all of us need sleep.

"Why not?" I enquire. My head feels sluggish.

In answer, I am met with an incredulous look. "Don't tell me _you_ are able to sleep?" she demands to know.

I raise my shoulders in a shrug, tilt my head to the side. "Yes, for the most part. I mean, falling asleep isn't easy but when I sleep, I sleep. Provided I'm allowed to." Which has been rather a rare occurrence in recent weeks.

"Don't you _dream_?" Persis asks, clearly surprised.

I wonder from where she takes the energy for all her italics.

"No. I gave up the habit of dreaming back in Flanders," I explain matter-of-factly.

It's the truth, even. The dreams that left me in Flanders have never returned. Sometimes, I regret that, because it also means the loss of nice dreams, but mostly I'm glad to be spared the nightmares. I dread the time _before_ sleep comes, when the dead march and – still – the saw saws. But once I am asleep, I might as well be dead myself.

Persis, on the other hand, does not appear as if she, too, is spared the nightmares. "Lucky you," she murmurs. She stares ahead, her eyes unfocused.

Once more, I shrug. We all have our own demons to fight.

"What did you want me to explain?" I ask, primarily to lure Persis away from _her_ demons.

She flinches, almost imperceptibly, her eyes swivelling back to look at me. "How these contraptions work," she answers vaguely, motioning towards the patient in the bed to my right. His name is Middleton.

For a moment, I have no idea what she's talking about. My gaze finds Middleton and I must have appeared suitably confused, for Middleton raises both hands to signal his own lack of understanding.

"These racks here," Persis adds impatiently.

I grow quieter when stressed. Persis, I have observed, becomes easily irritated.

At least I know what she's talking about now. "You mean the Thomas's splints," I state.

Persis raises her shoulders, a jerky movement. "If that's what they're called," she retorts.

Fine. If she's looking for distraction and considers it an adequate form of it if I explain to her how the Thomas's splints work, then, for God's sake, I will explain to her how the Thomas's splints work.

"May we?" I enquire of Middleton, as I step up to his bed.

He nods. "Sure." His voice is calm. Middleton is one of the more amiable patients. Patiently he watches as I pull the blanket away, exposing his leg.

"Alright, listen," I invite Persis who appears at my elbow. "Do you see this ring? It's to fix the splint to the upper thigh. The splint runs alongside both sides of the leg, ending in this kind of rack that keeps the leg up on the air. The rack is called a Spanish Windlass. The foot piece fixates the foot at a ninety degree angle to the leg. The knot here at the foot piece is a Figure-of-Eight-Knotand this one beneath it is called a Clove Hitch. And here, at the thigh, beneath the padded ring, is the Gooch's splint. Its job is to stabilize the actual fracture, which accounts for these triangular bandages almost enclosing the leg."

I point at the blanket I pulled aside earlier. "Because the leg is kept immobile, it cools down much faster, so it's important to give the patient enough blankets and hot water bottles. Oh, and by the way, these splints were refined since their invention by Dr Thomas. This variant here is also called a Sinclair's splint, named for a Dr Sinclair. He combined the Thomas's splint with a traction bandage. See the weights here?"

Looking over at Persis, I realize that she doesn't seem to have heard even a single word I just spoke. She might be staring down at the splint, but her eyes are unseeing.

"The inventor of the splint, was he by any chance a sailor?" Middleton interjects instead, having apparently followed my explanations with more interest.

"I don't know if good Dr Thomas had any knowledge about sailing," I admit. "Why are you asking?"

"The Figure-of-Eight-Knot and Clove Hitch are typical sailor's knots. My old man used to take me out to sea all the time, Sister. I suppose I would have become a sailor like him, if not…" He gestures down towards the splinted leg.

I give him an encouraging smile. "No reason for why you shouldn't become one yet. Dr Lavalliers only told me this morning how satisfied he is with how well your fracture is healing," I tell him. Dr Lavallier, the ward's doctor on duty, is not a man known for a hasty prognosis, after all.

A smile spreads over Middleton's face. "So you think I'll be alright?" he asks, clearly excited now.

"It appears to be so," I confirm, his enthusiasm making me smile as well.

This is the reason for why I'm doing this work. It might be one of the hardest jobs in the world, but I maintain that there are few jobs as rewarding as this one.

"I have to write to Betty and let her know," Middleton announces.

For a second, I stumble over the name, but of course he's not talking about _my_ Betty, moving ever closer to the frontline in her hospital in Doullens – or the other way round, I suppose. There must be almost as many Bettys on this earth as there are Marys and in all likelihood, Middleton's Betty isn't even Canadian. He, at least, is English, maybe from Yorkshire. I'm getting better at placing their accents.

"You do that," I encourage. Whoever this Betty is, if he means something to her, this can only be good news and in these days, everyone needs good news. Well, everyone except for the Germans, who already have plenty.

While Middleton rummages through the bag hanging from the top end of his bed and holding his personal belongings, I gently touch Persis's arm.

She jumps at my touch. For two or three seconds, she appears disoriented, blinking at me confusedly, before her gaze falls on Middleton's leg, quite by chance.

"Ah, yes. This is… very interesting," she remarks and almost manages to sound convincing, considering she probably did not hear even one word of what I said.

"Did Ken have such a splint as well?" she asks. I have a feeling she just wants to get me talking, the better to hide her own inattentiveness.

I do her the favour of explaining patiently, "Thomas's splints are mostly used to treat thigh fractures. Sometimes they are also suitable for non-fracture wounds, but Ken's injury was at a place that made fitting a Thomas's splint impossible. We wouldn't have been able to fit one without causing him pain."

And as usual when talking about Ken, a familiar feeling spreads within me. It's a feeling like a bruise, a dull kind of ache. It reminds me of when I was a child and never could leave my bruises alone. I was forever pressing on them, fascinated by how the blue colour – the blood – retreated only to reappear reliably once the pressure let off.

It's longing, this feeling. Yearning, even. Because even though his letters arrive with a frequency I have not earned by my own sparse replies, a letter can be a cold thing. It is no adequate replacement for having him with me. And these three months of separation already feel like an eternity.

Sometimes, at night, when I ignore the dead and don't listen to the saw, there are moments when the longing becomes almost too much to bear, and in these moments I'm tempted just to drop it all and rush back to him. They never take long, the moments, for reality is never far. It would be selfish to go and how could I dare be selfish when the Germans are moving against Ypres?

Still, the longing is there.

"Rilla?" a voice calls me back into this reality. Persis.

I shake my head, force myself back into the here-and-now. "I'm sorry. I was just… thinking," this with an apologetic little smile.

"Uh-huh. And what were you thinking about? Or should I say – _who_?" She wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully and I'm so glad to see it that I allow her teasing.

"What about you? Still don't want to rest?" I enquire instead. I'd feel better if she got some sleep.

Persis, however, shakes her head forcefully. "Certainly not!" In an instant, her eyes have dulled again.

I suppress a sigh. "Alright. You can take their temperatures if you want to," I suggest instead. If she refuses to sleep, I can at least keep an eye on her this way.

Strictly speaking, she has no business being here and even more strictly speaking, she should not be caring for the patients, but my fellow nursing sisters have gotten used to her by know. They are willing to look the other way, as long as Persis only acts under my supervision.

Without another word, Persis reaches out to take the thermometer from me, which I hand over carefully. Then she follows me from one bed to the next while I do my rounds on the fully-occupied station.

There's no bed in this entire hospital left unoccupied. We have roughly 2000 patients here at the moment and are operating at maximum capacity. At No. 26 GH, Persis's hospital, it's no different. No one gets enough sleep anymore and once you factor in the air raids… well, it's not without worry that I watch her now, but I can hardly _force_ her to rest, can I?

And that's despite all of us being in dire need of rest.

It's been three weeks since the Germans started their big offensive. And there was a moment, a horrible, threatening moment, when it looked their advance might carry them into Amiens. Amiens, the gate to the west. Even I know the price that has to be paid if Amiens falls.

They didn't succeed. We retained hold of Amiens. The loss, however, was awful enough as it is – Peronne was taken, then Baupaume and finally, Albert. The old battle ground of 1916, rolled up in the wrong direction.

South of Amiens, the Germans took so many miles of ground in so few days that it was almost unbelievable. Only to the north, in the area around Arras, they hardly managed to advance. They say one of the main reasons for this is our continued hold of Vimy Ridge. And as irrational as it sounds, it made me feel almost proud. Our Canadian boys took Vimy Ridge. They paid the price for it. But now, in these darkest of weeks, is almost looks as if the price might have been worth it.

In Flanders, on the other hand…

When the offensive was halted before Amiens, we almost dared think it was over. Two weeks of defeat, of desperate retreat, but maybe, _maybe_ , this was it?

We should have known better. Amiens they didn't take, but it only took days to reveal their next target. As it has been so often in the past few years, the target was once again, Ypres. And if the fall of Amiens would have cost us dearly, there's no discernible price to be put on the fall of Ypres. If Flanders were to be lost, only the sea could stop the Germans – and maybe not even that.

"100.7 degrees," Persis reports with a look on the thermometer and I call myself to order, concentrate on noting down the numbers. Just as I want to put back the sheet, Persis turns around, raising her hand. "Timmy," she calls out quietly.

Tim, standing on the other side of the ward, cranes his neck. Upon seeing us, he comes closer. In one hand, as I absent-mindedly register, he is carrying a piece of paper.

"Any news?" Persis asks, anxiously. The thermometer hangs from her fingers, obviously forgotten.

"Estaires has fallen. Armentières as well. And in Belgium, they took Messines," Tim answers. His voice is toneless. The past three weeks have robbed even him of his laugh.

Persis grits her teeth, her whole body tensing up. "In _one_ day?" In her voice, disbelief mixes with despair.

I know what she must be feeling. Messines, of all places. Messines was the starting point for last year's Flanders offensive. What if it is to play a similar role this time as well – only the other way round?

"What's going to happen now, Sergeant Clark?" a new voice joins the conversation. I turn my head slightly, look down at the soldier in the bed next to where we're standing. He, in return, considers us anxiously. Bishop is his name. He's one of the quieter patients.

Tim shrugs. "I reckon that if our soldiers don't manage to arrest the attack, they will retreat," he answers.

" _Again_!" hisses Persis from between her teeth.

"What are they to do?" sighs Tim. "Last year's fighting widened the Ypres salient to such an extent that it was always going to be difficult to hold. And now, being attacked from all sides, in desperate shortage of men… it makes no sense to fight to keep the salient as is, if the Fritzens break through somewhere else instead."

Persis eyes him doubtfully. "But they can't give up Ypres!" she argues.

Slowly, Tim shakes his head. "Not Ypres, I think. But all these useless villages in the east of the city, I'd wager they'll give those up."

I swallow hard.

All these useless villages in the east of the city?

It was these useless villages that were taken last year. Painstaking, bloody, deadly work it was, until they were finally captured, these villages which they had claimed to be off utmost importance to the course of war. Important enough for tens of thousands of soldiers to give their lives for it.

Only… _what_ for?

I suddenly feel sick.

Next to me, Persis scoffs. As I turn my head to look at her, I see her holding Tim's piece of paper in her hand. A deep frown is edged on her forehead as she studies the words printed on it. Then the holds it out to me gingerly, almost as if she couldn't bear touching it even a second longer.

"Here, from Field Marshall Haig in person," she adds by way of explanation. There's not much kindness in the way she speaks his name.

Almost without thinking, I lower my gaze upon the printed paper. It takes a moment for the letters to take on their proper form before my eyes, and another moment for my head to try and make sense of his words.

 _To all ranks of the British Army in France and Flanders:_  
 _Three weeks ago to-day the enemy began his terrific attacks against us on a fifty-mile front. His objects are to separate us from the French, to take the Channel Ports and destroy the British Army._  
 _In spite of throwing already 106 Divisions into the battle and enduring the most reckless sacrifice of human life, he has as yet made little progress towards his goals._  
 _We owe this to the determined fighting and self-sacrifice of our troops. Words fail me to express the admiration which I feel for the splendid resistance offered by all ranks of our Army under the most trying circumstances._  
 _Many amongst us now are tired. To those I would say that Victory will belong to the side which holds out the longest. The French Army is moving rapidly and in great force to our support._  
 _There is no other course open to us but to fight it out. Every position must be held to the last man: there must be no retirement. With our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause each one of us must fight on to the end. The safety of our homes and the Freedom of mankind alike depend upon the conduct of each one of us at this critical moment._

After having finished reading, I raise my head once more and look back at two expectant faces. "Well, he's got one thing right," I point out, surprising even myself by how calm my voice is.

" _What_?" is Persis's incredulous retort.

I turn the paper in my hand once or twice. "We _are_ tired," I reply, "And… well, I suppose we really do have our backs to the wall."

"In that case, we'd better hope that the _justice of our cause_ will really make us _fight on to the end_. Because of the _freedom of mankind_ and the _safety of our homes_ and whatnot," Tim drily quotes. His fingers paint quotation marks into the air.

"As long as it's not _our_ end," Persis darkly remarks.

A cautious tug at my sleeve lets me look downwards. Bishop returns my gaze shyly. "May I have a look at that?" he asks politely.

"Sure. Here you go." I let him take the paper from me, then take a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. I'm really so very tired.

Some seconds pass, before a new voice has me open my eyes again. "Miss Blythe? Do you have a moment?" In front of me stands Miss Talbot.

"Of course," I nod. Out of the corner of eye, I notice Bishop handing over Haig's order to the patient in the bed next to his. I allow it. Maybe there's a man on this ward still for whom these words can be a source of comfort.

I follow Miss Talbot outside, from the hut and then further towards the edge of the hospital area. I don't miss Persis and Tim walking behind us and neither does Miss Talbot. She raises an eyebrow at me, but I shake my head. Let them hear if they think there _is_ something to hear.

Miss Talbot, as efficient as ever, comes to the point without much ado. "I just wanted to inform you that you will do duty in the operating theatre, beginning the day after tomorrow."

" _No_."

The word rises from deep within me, quite on its own. It has left my lips before I even resolved to say it.

"What was that?" asks Miss Talbot, clearly puzzled.

"No," I repeat. My voice is very calm and decided, not even impolite, and yet, it forbids any kind of argument.

It's merely a fact. An irrefutable reality.

I'm not going back into the operating theatre.

The realization is as clear as anything. I don't even need to consider it. I don't care what Miss Talbot says, what anyone says. I'm not going back into the operating theatre.

I _can't_ go back into the operating theatre.

"I don't understand…" Miss Talbot cautiously remarks.

"I'm not going back into the operating theatre," I inform her, quite as if there never was a question about it.

Miss Talbot opens her mouth, then closes it again. It seems as if she has seen something in my face that makes her reconsider her words. Some seconds pass, before she sighs softly.

"I won't ask you why you don't want to go," she says quietly. "I'm just going to assume that you have a good reason for it."

"Thank you," I reply and mean it. I don't think I'd be able to speak about Flanders now. Not when we're this close to losing everything we thought we had achieved there last year.

Miss Talbot nods slowly. "I can post Lydia Cramer to the theatre instead of you," she tells me thoughtfully. "But if I do that, you'll have to take over her current task."

A moment of hesitation, then she adds, "Night duty on the moribund ward."

I give a curt nod. "Alright."

Behind me, there's a sudden sound. A gasping for air. Persis. Of course. She hasn't been here long enough – _too_ long? – yet. Death is not yet normality to her.

Another nod from Miss Talbot, a soft sigh. "That's decided it, then. I will –" But she never finishes her sentence.

"Look! Over there!" interrupts Tim from behind. He sounds almost – excited?

Miss Talbot casts an annoyed glance at him. From the look of it, it appears as if she means to upbraid him for his cheek, but then she follows his gaze and her expression suddenly changes.

I turn around as well. For a moment, I don't understand what Tim meant to point out to us. I let my eyes search the scene in front of us, but there's nothing there except for long columns of marching soldiers. But what…?

And then I see it as well. There's something different about these soldiers. Normally, we are used to two versions of them. There are the veterans, experienced but battle-weary, with grey faces and lowered heads. And then there are the new recruits, with boyish faces and not enough years, pale and nervous and shy as they are.

These soldiers, however, don't fit in with either group. They are young, hold themselves upright, walking swiftly. They seem taller, more imposing in stature. And they're fairly bursting with strength, with enthusiasm – even with _confidence_?

"Who are they?" asks Persis. Her voice is confused, almost sceptical.

And then, suddenly, I know.

These men, arriving in the darkest of hours, are an unexpected glimmer of light. They are the fulfilment of a promise we long ago lost faith in.

I come to stand next to Persis and take her hand. The feeling bubbling up within me I haven't felt in a long time and so it takes a moment until I recognize it for what it is.

Hope.

"They're Americans," I say quietly. "The Yankees have come."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Over there' from 1917 (lyrics and music by George M. Cohan)._

 _Field Marshall Haig is Douglas Haig, 1_ _st_ _Earl Haig (1861-1928), who was commander of the British Forces on the Western Front from late 1915 to the end of the war. He led the troops during the Battles of the Somme (1916) and Passchendaele (1917) as well as during the German Spring offensive (1918). On April 11_ _th_ _, 1918, he issued an order to the troops that became very well-known. After the war, in 1919, he was ennobled. The excessive casualties suffered among British and Commonwealth soldiers while under his command have earned him the nickname 'Butcher Haig' or 'Butcher of the Somme'._


	43. As the hearse goes by

_May 19_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France_

 **As the hearse goes by**

All around me, it's quiet. Only the soft breathing of the men can be heard, occasionally punctuated by a cough or a low groan or the creaking of a camp bed when one of them moves. Darkness surrounds them, except for the dim glow of light coming from my small lamp. But the darkness is kind, there's nothing threatening about it. It just _is_. Like a thick, warm blanket, blocking out the world.

The moribund ward by night is, paradoxically, an almost peaceful place.

During the day it's not always as quiet, especially when they bring over the relatives from England. The first time I noticed them doing it, I actually didn't want to believe it. The thought of letting civilians into what is essentially a war zone seemed too absurd. And yet, that's what they are doing. When it looks like a patient will die soon but not _too_ soon, they bring the relatives over from England to say goodbye. It's these visit that fill our normally so quiet ward with the piteous wailing of wives, the desperate begging of mothers, the helpless anger of fathers.

And even though I do feel sympathy for them – yes, I _do_ – I also know that it would be a strain on my nerves that I can do without. Which is why I prefer the silence of the night.

I suppose many people might think it eerie, even spooky, to spend night after night surrounded by the dying, but I don't. When I look back upon the frantic, panicked work of the past months, the work in here almost seems… well, _easy_.

Yes, they die, and yes, I am sorry when they do. But… I don't have to fight for them anymore. The battle has been fought and lost. Their fate is already decided. Their lives were never in my hands and death is inescapable. I have only been tasked with trying to make their last journey as free of fear and pain as possible.

That's what makes it peaceful. Not the absence of death – just the absence of fight.

Sometimes, the men themselves still fight. Fight against death, with all strength they have left. Cling to the remaining bit of life within them. Most of them don't make it. After a while, the fight leaves them and, shortly afterwards, so does life. Others though are so stubborn in their refusal to die that I send them back. If someone can still fight this way, they don't belong here. Because no matter how many doctors refuse to believe in it, the will to live can be a thing of beauty. And sometimes, in rare moments, it is enough to defeat even Death itself.

But that seldom happens. The majority of men in this ward welcome Death like an old friend. Calm, composed, polite.

It is this quietness I feel grateful for. Because the past two months had a touch of eternity about them. Days and nights melted into a sticky kind of mass. It was one transport after the other. Every possible vehicle was filled with patients and sent our way. Trains, ambulances, lorries, even simple carts drawn by animals. Every day, there were hundreds of wounded, with empty faces and confused eyes, their dirty uniforms ripped open over infected wounds, the cloth stuck to the skin by congealed blood. And every time a transport had been taken care of, with the patients treated or sent on, it began all over again.

Alongside our wounded and the treks of French refugees, the medical units from further up the line were driven back as well. Personnel from the CCS close to the frontline were often forced to evacuate so quickly that they arrived here with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Even Arques was given up, which had been so safe and so far removed from the frontline a short three months ago.

The thought fills me with fear. Because it raises the question of whether the day will come when Étaples won't be safe anymore either.

My old colleagues from No. 7 CSH have temporarily been attached to our unit. That is the one ray of light – Maud is here, though probably not for long. Zachary isn't. He left the unit not long after I did and is now posted to another hospital further to the west.

The growl of a train in the distance makes me raise my head. It's fast, identifying it as carrying reinforcement. It's their speed that allows us to reliably determine if a train is filled with reinforcements or wounded. The ambulance trains are much slower.

They haven't come quite as frequently in the past few days, the ambulance trains. During the whole of April, fighting raged in Flanders. And just as Tim has predicted, they gave up those miles of ground that had been taken in such bloody battles last year. For some awful moments, it even looked as if Ypres itself might fall. But like they did in Amiens beforehand, our troops dug their heels in and re-drew the frontline to the east of the city. Further south, the advance was stopped in front of Bethúne, though not before Bailleul was lost. But since the German offensive has slowed down at the end of May and then, finally, was put on hold altogether, we have received fewer wounded patients. After six weeks of full and fullest occupancy, the hospital has been half empty for some days now.

But we don't expect it to be over. We don't dare.

Even the hope invoked within us by the sight of the American soldiers has given way to wary scepticism once more. Because the Yankees might be coming, but they're taking an awful lot of time about it. And in the meantime, the enemy throws all his troops that have been freed by the collapse of the Russians in the east against the battle-weary French and English armies.

However, there's a comfort – a small comfort, but a comfort still – to be found in the fact that the Canadians have mostly remained untouched by recent developments. A few of them were involved in the fighting around Ypres, but the majority of the Corps is still tasked with holding the frontline between Lens to the north and Arras to the south. It was here, in the shadow of Vimy Ridge, that the German advance, horribly effective as it was everywhere else, was halted after a few short miles back in March, with relatively few casualties. I always have to remind myself of it when my thoughts turn darker – that Vimy Ridge made sense, even if Passchendaele turned out to be worthless in the end.

Walter is still there, somewhere close to Vimy. Shirley's unit was pulled back at the beginning of May, for training purposes. He was granted leave to England shortly afterwards. We had some hope about maybe being able to see one another, if only for a short time, but his journey did not lead him through Étaples and there's no leaving here for me. Regardless of that though, it's good to know him to be safe for a while. If only his two weeks weren't coming to a close already…

I sigh. A short glance at the watch tells me it's almost ten o'clock. Time to do my rounds.

Refolding Nan's letter, I put it down on the table. It is a concerned letter. All letters from home are filled with worry, most especially in recent weeks, but none as much as those from Nan. It almost surprised me a bit to see her open concern for me. And while I'm sorry to give her cause for worry, it's still nice to know that even after almost two years and across thousands of miles, they haven't forgotten me.

Besides – there's something in Nan's concern, in her orders to _better_ look after myself, that reminds me of the _old_ Nan. Passionate, bossy, sometimes grim in her determination. It makes me feel a tentative hope that maybe, she has started to get better, however long her journey will take in the end.

Next to Nan's letter there's a small pile made up by the rest of my mail. Letters from Mum, Faith, Walter, Colette. And Ken, naturally. He's hell-bent on being back as soon as possible. Yet something more to fill me with dread.

I reach for my lamp and quietly walk through the ward. At intervals, I pause to lay a hand on a forehead or feel for a pulse. Little Peaty is restless, tossing around, groaning quietly. I give him some more Morphine, then wait next to him until he has fallen asleep.

He doesn't have long to live, Peaty. Maybe he will be dead before tomorrow night. But for now, my worry is directed elsewhere. You get a feeling for who'll be the next one to die and tonight, it will be Evans.

Evans is awake when I step next to him. His pale face turns towards me. The white of his eyes shimmers in the darkness. He gasps for air. A rattling sound.

It won't be long now. I think Evans knows it.

Among the many horrible ways to die in this war, being poisoned by gas might be the most wretched one. It is a pitiful end, not made any better by how perfidious the use of poison gas is in the first place.

Evans is sitting upright. They do it instinctively, the gas patients. Lying down, they wouldn't be able to breathe at all. But even now, it's more of a panting and gasping for air than anything else. While I'm still taking his pulse – far too fast – he is overcome by a coughing fit.

His whole body seizes, convulsing relentlessly. He coughs and heaves, disgorging a yellowish, blood-tinged fluid into the bowl I hold out for him. Pulmonary fluid. Sometimes they cough up one or two quarts of it in a single hour.

The poison gas might attack the lungs, but it's not so much a death by suffocating as by drowning. They keep spitting out fluid until there's _too_ much of it in their lungs for them to dislodge it. Then it's lung failure and death. They are, more often than not, fully conscious during the whole process. That's what makes it such a wretched death.

The coughing fit seems to be over and I pull back the bowl. Evans turns his head towards me. Cold sweat covers his forehand. The paleness of his face has taken on a bluish tinge. It has already begun.

I stay with him, while his breathing grows more shallow, the coughing more relentless. I hold him while he is shaken by convulsions and stroke his head when his panicked eyes search out my own. He doesn't have long to suffer now. I have no comfort to offer him but this.

In the end, it takes less than half an hour. One last desperate gasp for air, a seizing of the muscles, his eyes widening – then he has made it. This world, at least, won't hurt him anymore.

For a moment I just sit there, look down at Evans and wait for the feeling to pass. This tightening around my chest I still feel every time one of them dies. Because while I'm grateful for how quiet it is on the moribund ward, I hate, hate, _hate_ to lose them. And to see them struggle like Evans did just makes it worse.

The feeling passes. I take a deep breath. With a sigh I close Evans's eyes and pull up the blanket over his face. Almost mechanically I go through the next steps. My hands reach for his patient's chart to document his very last minutes, in the cold, curt language of bureaucrats.

As I write, my gaze falls upon a single word, scribbled in the margin of the sheet. _Phosgene_. It doesn't surprise me. Evans's death was typical for one caused by Phosgene. What does surprise me at times, however, is how little-known Phosgene still is, compared to chlorine and mustard gas, even though it is that much more deadly.

Chlorine gas is still associated with the horror of that first gas attack, three years ago, when no one knew how to protect themselves against this horrible new weapon, when our soldiers sat in their trenches, filled with dread, watching this strange cloud move towards them, not yet knowing it was out to kill them. As for mustard gas, it torments anyone who comes into contact with it. There's not much in this world that hurts as badly as burns caused by mustard gas. They make even our brave boys scream in pain.

But you can see chlorine gas, and mustard gas you can smell. Phosgene, on the other hand, is a silent killer. Colourless, almost odourless, it creeps closer. Often, the symptoms don't set in for a day or two, and when they do, it's too late. They end like Evans, then.

Chlorine and mustard gas might be more well-known, _louder_ somehow, but it is the quiet deviousness of Phosgene that makes me shudder. One would think it typical of the Germans to invent as gas such as this, but according to Ken, the French were the first to deploy it. So there's that. I don't suppose anyone can claim the moral high ground in this gas warfare anymore.

I step away from Evans's bed and survey the rest of the ward. It appears to be quiet.

It's too early now, but in a while I will have to lay out Evans's body. During the day, it's a task for the orderlies, but there are no orderlies at night, so it falls to me to do it. I don't mind. After I have endured their dying, their death cannot daunt me anymore.

The laying out is done in several steps. At first, a piece of cloth is tied around the head, to keep the mouth closed. Then the body is washed with warm water and soap, before being dried thoroughly. Next, a wad of cotton is put on each eye, to keep them from opening. Another piece of cotton wool is stuck up the boweland the feet are tied together. Finally, the body is re-dressed and covered by a blanket.

But before I can start on the laying out, there's something else to do. With a heavy heart, I walk back to my table at the head of the ward to turn my attention to a special task that always awaits us when someone dies. The letter to the family.

We don't have to do it, strictly speaking, but among us nurses, it's a mark of honour to write to the relatives of the patients who have passed away. Not the _truth_ , naturally, or not all of it. Just enough of so it can be a comfort to them, before the truth turns to agony.

To the Evans family I will write that he died in a warm bed, that he was brave and _not alone_. That's the most important thing, I think. It's the lonely death most people fear above all others. I won't write to them _how_ he died. Desperately gasping for air, fully conscious and knowing that Death had come for him. Neither will I write that, after he paid the highest sacrifice for King and Country, this country doesn't even have a coffin for him, not even his own _grave_.

You need wood to make coffins, and carpenters, and the army can't spare either – or doesn't want to. Instead, the corpses are wrapped into blankets or shrouds and buried two to a grave. Apparently, they aren't even worth that measly yard of ground, the brave fallen. Only officers still get a coffin and their own grave, though rumour has it that by now, even they have to do without it sometimes.

It's this lack of an own grave that leaves me with a nasty taste in my mouth. Because they may be burying the dead with military honours, with chaplain and guard of honour and bugle call, but the fact that they don't even have a grave for every fallen man feels like a last disrespect towards those on whose honour they sing such praise otherwise.

Before I sit down to write that letter to the Evans family, I decide to have another look at Peaty. He is quiet still, but Barker, the man in the bed next to him, is awake. He has raised his head, concentrated gaze fixed on the ceiling. When he notices me, he turns and considers me with mild curiosity.

"Do you get air raids around here, Sister?" he enquires politely.

I hurry to shake my head. "We did have alarms quite often in recent weeks, but no actual raids. Besides, the roofs of the huts are painted with red crosses so that enemy pilots know this is a hospital. There's no need to worry."

And then, just as the words have left my lips, all hell breaks loose.

A blast rips through the night. Thundering. Deafening. Then a jolt. The earth shakes. With a clinking sound, the windows break.

A momentary pause. Then -

Another blast. There's a shrill ringing in my ears. A jolt, severe enough to throw me off balance. I cling to a bedframe. The earth quakes. A sudden beam of light from outside falls upon the splinters of glass, making them glitter.

For several seconds, I just stand there, frozen in shock.

I _know_ air raids. I know them from Flanders, from Arques, even from here. I know the sound of the maroon, the Morse-based air raid warning device. I know the buzzing of the airplanes, the thundering of the bombs, the shaking of the earth.

I know it all. But this… the crashes have never been this loud, the concussions never been this severe. The bombs have never been this close.

All the air raid alarms I have experienced… all those times when, in my arrogance, I didn't want to go into a shelter… I never really believed it could become serious. That it might truly strike us – _me_. Not really, not deep down within. I see that now, with sudden clarity. Had I believed, I would have been more scared.

As I am now.

This is what mortal fear must feel like.

The beam of light shudders, paints shadows against the wall. An ominous orange.

I can move again. I hasten towards the window. Another bomb falls. Much too close. Instinctively, I pull my head back. Reflex. As if it could change anything.

The window pane has burst, the splinters making a crunching sound beneath my feet. Only jagged bits of glass still line the frame, refracting the orange light. Somewhere, the anti-aircraft guns have started thundering.

I bend forward, to the window. Outside, shadowy figures run past. Above them, the moon. A silver disk, shining relentlessly. Then, for a moment, an airplane in front of it. A black shadow, like a bird of prey.

Quickly, I pull back my head. The shadow flies on.

Cries. Screams. They come from where the personnel's quarters are. I look back outside, turn my head. And now I know where the orange light comes from.

The living quarters are burning.

Another crash. I duck away.

Seconds later, a new sound. A cracking staccato. I have never heard it, cannot place it for a moment. Until I see the airplane, flying much too close to the ground. And the figures running away from it.

So _this_ is what a machine gun sounds like.

My first impulse, the selfish, almost animalistic reflex, is to flee. Just to run somewhere, where the sky is silent and the earth still. Then, seconds later, no less primitive but more altruistic, the longing to run outside to where my colleagues are, to where they need help.

Moments pass. I'm frozen between the two forces, pulling me into different directions. Then, as if someone has raised a curtain, sounds begin getting through to me. Whimpers, sobs. A scream. I turn around. And suddenly, I know.

I can't go anywhere. My place is here, and here I will stay.

It helps somewhat. Because what is happening out there, _up there_ , is beyond my control. But in here, I can do something. For these men, with their terrified faces lit up by the orange light.

I turn my back to the window. To the outside.

Another crash, another jolt through the earth. Instinctively, I reach for the window frame to steady myself. A sharp pain courses through my hand. I look back. One of the jagged pieces of glass is coloured red. My blood.

But it doesn't matter. Not now.

I have to focus. I have to _do_ something.

What should I do?

I have to protect them. But… how?

The anti-aircraft guns continue to thunder. The fiery glow casts shadows on the walls.

I close my eyes tightly. I can't think.

Under the bed, isn't it? That's what they say. In case of bombs, under the bed. But how am I supposed to do it? It's just me and every one of these patients is severely ill or severely wounded. I can't move them on my own. How shall I do it?

If only someone would come!

Desperately, I look towards the door. Beg some higher being that it might open and reveal help.

But the door remains still and dark.

And that's how I know.

No one will come. Those on the outside are too busy trying to save the lives of the living. What are they supposed to do here, helping my patients, who are already dead?

We're on our own.

It's just them and me and Death up there in the sky and a time that has lost its meaning. There's nothing else in this night which started out so peacefully and is now painted in all the colours of hell.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The hearse song' from the 19_ _th_ _century (source unknown)._


	44. Bombed the night before

_May 20_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France_

 **Bombed the night before**

It is, without question, the longest night of my life.

I hurry from one man to the next, hold their hands, murmur soothing words, try to be everywhere at once and yet, am nowhere for long enough. I help those who can be moved lie down under their beds. To those who don't seem to be able to bear it, I give some medicine to calm them down. For the rest of them, I can't do much. Truth to be told, I can't do much for any of them, except being _there_ and not letting them see how terrified I myself am.

And the entire time, it thunders above our heads. Bombs, airplanes, anti-aircraft guns… it all blurs into one continuous roar until I don't know where one starts and the other ends.

Once, there's a brief interval, during which the silence is so loud it rings in my ears. Minutes pass. The ringing grows fainter. And just as I feel a tentative hope rising within me, thinking it might be _over_ , Barker raises his head. "They're coming back," he states,

And they do. They _know_ no mercy.

A howling sound as the airplanes pass over our head. Then the crash of falling bombs. I duck down, every time. Inadvertently. Instinctively. As if my foolish body refuses to understand that it won't do any good.

The thundering has changed directions. Earlier, it was the living quarters among the dunes that were under fire. When I risk a quick glance through one of the glassless windows, I see that now, the bombs are raining down on the hospital huts up on the hill.

A light flickers past. For a moment, I see my own reflection, mirrored in a shard of glass. It doesn't look like me. Deathly pale, eyes opened widely. Fearful. Panicked.

"Sister!" A pitiful cry.

I turn around, away from the window, away from my reflection. A bomb falls, much too close. The earth shivers. Debris rains down from the ceiling. I hurry through the ward, my hands raised above my head. From the debris, they may protect me yet.

It is Peaty.

He is bleeding. So much _blood_. My feet make a squishing sound in the puddle around his bed. My hands slide off his slippery skin. Frantically, desperately, I press against the wound in his leg, from where it bubbles forth. But my entire strength is no match for the might with which his dying heart pumps out the blood. He is already cold. The blood is all that is still warm on him.

His eyes roll in his head. His hands grip my arm. A gurgling sound, then – his head falls back. His hold loosens. I raise my hands. The blood still flows.

It took mere seconds.

He had an injured artery. It was sutured, but sutures can rupture. Maybe he moved around too much. Maybe the bombs scared him too badly. Maybe it was simply time for him.

But, _oh God_ – what a night to die.

Slowly, I take a step back, automatically reaching for a blanket and spreading it over Peaty's body. The blanket is dark. At least the blood won't be visible.

My eyes land on Barker. He seems bored. As if all this didn't mean anything to him anymore. He's strange, Barker is. Nothing touches him. Not the falling bombs, not the comrade bleeding to death in the bed next to his. It's as if he put all this behind himself a long time ago.

"It's over," he informs me, calmly, noticing my gaze.

Does he mean…? No, not Peaty. The bombs. He's talking about the bombs.

I pause. Listen.

Silence.

Can it be over?

Turning my back to Barker, I walk over to the sink, reach for a brush, and start scrubbing Peaty's blood off of my arms, my hands. Minutes pass. The silence still holds. I continue scrubbing. Right until a sharp pain courses through my left hand. Puzzled, I look down. The blood running down the drain is no longer Peaty's. It is my own. The cut has opened up again.

It must have been hours since I hurt myself on that shard. It feels like days.

I put the brush away, casting an absent-minded look at my watch. Then, frowning, I do a double-take. It's only half an hour past midnight. Can it really only have been two hours?

I would have sworn that it was much, much longer.

But time is relative, isn't it? Two hours of terror will always feel like an eternity. And if this wasn't terror, I don't know what was.

At least it does seem to be over. The silence is almost eerie. And only very gradually it is pierced by sounds. The calls of men running around outside. The breathing and rustling of the patients in their beds, and below.

I walk over to the window, dare to look outside. But the skies remain silent. Only the moon looks down upon us. It was the moon's bright shine that exposed us to death tonight.

"They're not coming back," Barker remarks from behind me.

He has no way of knowing this, of course he hasn't, and yet… somehow, I believe him. Somehow, I know he's right.

And right he _is_.

The rest of the night passes so quietly it almost feels unreal after what has happened. The daily tasks feel inappropriate in light of what we have lived through. But it is the daily tasks that give us something to hold on to.

I go from one patient to the next, make sure that they're alright, that they haven't hurt themselves, that there's not _another one_ who died. And then, after the living have been taken care of, I turn towards the dead.

First, I walk over to Evans. He is already rigid. At least I laid him out straight before I left him. I don't think he'd fit into his half of a grave otherwise.

He almost looks peaceful in death when one considers how awful his death was. But I'm glad he died this early in the night. That he was spared what happened after. That the world, in his last moments, had presented its peaceful side.

Peaty, on the other hand… his bloodless body is as white as chalk in the light of the rising sun. It threatens to be a beautiful day. But the last memory he carries over into the next world is one of fear and thunder and death. If only he had seen the sun once more… but oh, not even this was granted to him. At least Death came quickly to him. At least he had _that_.

The dawning day brings a careful sigh of relief. They won't dare to come back in the light. We are safe – for now. But we know now that we are vulnerable. That the red crosses on the huts' roofs won't protect us.

From now on, there will not be a night during which we can sleep peacefully.

I help the men to come out from under their beds, the inadequate protection of which they have no need anymore. And then, when they're all lying comfortably once more, I fetch bucket and rag, kneel down next to Peaty's bed and wipe away the blood surrounding it. I'm scrubbing as hard as I can at the red stains and, when I hand over the ward to the day sister, there's nothing left to remind of that fact that Peaty bled to death, save for the absolute whiteness of his skin.

One final look at Evans and Peaty, then I turn around, walk over the ward's exit with cautious steps. Once I have reached the door, I pause, close my eyes and take a deep breath, before I have gathered enough courage to step outside.

And in a way I _knew_ what awaited me, in a way it was obvious to me, but… but it's different to see it. To really _see_ it, up close, in the light of the day. The scale of the destruction. The huts torn down, the debris scattered on the paths, the dirty, tired faces of my colleagues hurrying past. The night had hidden what the sun now reveals.

It feels unreal.

Slowly, I make my way across the hospital area, through the chaos, look to the left and to the right and realize, maybe for the first time, how bad it truly was. I wonder how many casualties there were and then I wonder if I even want to know.

Crossing the street, I evade a lorry, then walk up the dune behind which our quarters lie. First, I pass the small huts of the officers. Here, too, the bombs have raged. Several huts have obviously been hit. Was someone in there?

Next, my gaze travels over to where the men's quarters are. Or – _were_. There is nothing left but a bizarre shape of blackened, burned _parts_ that once made up their billet. Some are still smouldering. This, then, explains the fire glow. I don't have to ask to know that barely anyone who was in there made it out alive.

A deep breath before I turn to my left, towards the nurses' quarters. They're still standing at least, but… but the south eastern corner lies in ruins. It is, as I realize with sudden terror, the corner where my beds stands.

 _Stood_.

Moments later, I vomit into the dunes.

Bending over, hands propped against my knees, I heave and writhe. And then, suddenly, gentle hands at my neck, pulling back the veil, stroking my back. "Shhh," a friendly voice. "Shshsh."

Slowly, I right myself and look into Maud's sympathetic face. "Feeling better, darling?" she asks.

I nod. Then I shake my head. "I… I…" But no words will come. Helplessly, I point towards what was my sleeping place. I'm vaguely aware of my body shivering.

"It's alright, sweetie. It's alright," murmurs Maud. She takes me into her arms, pulls down my head against her shoulder, gently swaying, much in the way you would hold a child.

But I am even unable to cry. With burning eyes, I stare over her shoulder, towards the ruins that would have buried me as well, had things just been a little bit different.

For who would have thought that the saw would save my life one day?

If I had taken the position in the operating theatre as Miss Talbot had intended for me last month, the airplanes would have surprised me not on duty in the ward, but asleep in my bed. My bed, that now lies buried in the ruins of what once was our billet.

Once more, I feel nausea rising within me. I push Maud away, turn around, but there's nothing left, just bitter-tasting bile to heave up. Maud strokes my back.

"There, there. It'll be alright," she soothes. Which is probably untrue, but I'm grateful for her effort.

Hesitantly, I straighten. My eyes move back towards to the nurses' quarters, as if pulled by magnets. Now though, there's a figure standing in front of them, staring down at the debris pensively.

"Miss Talbot!" I call out. She raises her head. She looks older than she did only last night.

As fast as the dune will allow, I run over to her. Maud follows more composedly.

"How bad is it?" I gasp once I have reached Miss Talbot.

She sighs heavily. "Miss MacDonald is dead. As is Captain Howes. Seven sisters are injured, and one doctor. I have no information on the other hospitals yet. They're talking about several hundreds of casualties in the whole camp."

For a moment, her words serve to confuse me. Somehow, I haven't yet thought beyond the limits of our hospital. It only makes sense that others must have been hit as well, but… I swallow hard.

"How is Miss Cramer?" is my next question. Because she took over my intended shift in the operating theatre and thus, it was her in bed last night, where, by rights, I should have been. If something happened to her…

Miss Talbot seems to understand. "Miss Cramer is well," she assures. "She was in the kitchen when it began."

Slowly, I let go of a breath. "And…?" But I never finish the question. I'm not quite sure what I even meant to ask. Or if I want to know the answer.

But Miss Talbot gives it anyway. "Some 50 dead and another 50 injured among the ORs. Most of the orderlies are dead. Ten dead and 30 wounded among the patients." She looks over at the still smouldering men's quarters and shakes her head sadly.

Orderlies?

That's Tim.

A shiver travels down my spine. "What about Sergeant Clark?" My throat feels tight, reducing the question to a mere whisper.

Miss Talbot raises her shoulders. "I have only numbers, no names yet, except for those of the sisters," she explains apologetically. "I am hopeful that more will be known in the course of the day, but right now, the situation is still unclear."

I nod, but there's a lump lodged in my throat that makes breathing hard.

Maud, having come to stand next to me, takes this moment to enquire, "Are you talking about that nice little orderly from the femur ward?" Upon my nod, the adds, "I saw him during the night. _After_ it was all over. He seemed to be fine. He was helping to recover the bodies of his dead comrades."

Immediately, I breathe more easily. "Thank you, Maud," I murmur, reaching for her hand. She returns my squeezes, gives me an encouraging smile.

Only then do I turn back towards Miss Talbot. "What can I do?" I ask. Because there's no doubt that I _will_ do something. It's just a question of where I'm needed the most.

For several seconds, Miss Talbot considers me, silently, almost doubtingly, but then she shrugs and answers, "You can help with the treatment of the injured sisters. They are in ward G."

"Good." I nod.

"I'll tell them to expect you," Miss Talbot replies. She nods first at me, then at Maud before turning around and making her way back up the dune with heavy steps.

Several seconds pass in silence.

"You look like death warmed over," Maud informs me kindly.

I almost smile. "I _feel_ like it, too," I admit. "But I reckon that's true for everyone in this hospital, probably in this entire camp."

Maud sighs. "You might be right on that account, sweetheart. I don't think anyone got even a wink of sleep last night, or at least no one who isn't stark raving mad anyway.

Well, Barker slept like a baby.

"Exactly. And seeing as all of you are facing a whole day of work after a night spent very much awake, there's no excuse for me to crawl into bed now," I point out, before pausing suddenly. "That is… if I still _had_ a bed…"

There's a hysterical kind of laughter bubbling within me, pushing toward the surface, but I fight it back down. I don't want Maud to think I'm as mad as creepy Barker.

Maud pats my cheek. "Speaking of work – my shift starts in a couple of minutes. Can I leave you to it?" She seems truly worried and I feel a wave of gratefulness towards her.

"I'm fine," I assure her. "I'll go on duty in ward G and I'm sure I'll find something to occupy myself with there."

Before that, however, there are two other matters that require tending to. There are the telegrams that need to be sent, to let them know I'm alright. One for Ken, the other for Jem – he'll know how to inform the rest of them.

And then there's Persis.

It only takes one good look at No. 26 GH to realize that they, thank God, weren't hit as badly as we were. Some damage can clearly be seen, but not to the extent as it is over in our hospital.

The air raids have, naturally, disrupted normal proceedings here as well though, to replace them by something akin to chaos. And so it's for several minutes that I wander through the hospital, intermittently asking for Persis, but without encountering anyone able to point me towards her.

In the end, she's the one to find me. I'm just inspecting a rather secluded corner of the hospital, when, without warning, two arms wrap themselves around me so tightly it almost hurts. I return the hug and for a moment or two, we just stand there. Then Persis takes as step back. When she looks at me, her eyes widen.

"You're hurt!" she exclaims.

I frown. How was she able to see this so fast? "Oh, this is nothing. Just a scratch, really," I am quick to assure anyway. "I hurt myself on a shard of broken windowpane and –"

" _Just a scratch_?" Persis screeches, sounding slightly hysterical.

Confused at her outburst, I follow her gaze, look down at myself. And then I realize what has upset her so. My apron and parts of my uniform are covered in blood. Peaty's blood, for the most part, but how's Persis to know that?

Hurrying to soothe her, I correct, "No, no. That's not mine. One of my patients bled to death last night and –"

Once more, Persis does not let me finish. " _Bled to death_?" Her voice is cracking. Her bottom lip quivers.

"He was already hurt. It wasn't the bombs," I explain with a sigh. "I would have changed before coming here, but our nurses' quarters were hit and the corner where my bed stood is completely destroyed. I doubt any of my belongings have survived and –"

" _Completely destroyed_?" Persis interrupts once again. A noise is ripped from her throat, part laugh, part sob, before she hides her face in her hands. Her shoulders are shaking.

Helplessly, I gaze at her.

"There, there," I murmur. "It's alright. Nothing happened." Even though I know it not to be true, just as surely as I know that Maud is so much better at comforting others than I am.

Persis just sobs louder. So I do what Maud did for me, take her into my arms and gently rock her from side to side, while she cries into my shoulder.

Long minutes pass until Persis finally raises her head and takes a step back. With both hands, she rubs her wet face, sniffling audibly.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, clearly subdued.

Quickly, I shake my head. "Don't be. There's no reason to be sorry," I assure. Tears may have forsaken me a long time ago, but there's still nothing shameful about them.

Persis takes a deep breath, letting go of it slowly. Her gaze wanders off to the side as she wrings her hands.

"I didn't realize it would be this way," she says quietly. "I thought it would be glamorous and honourable to be a war nurse. I had this picture of me wearing a pretty uniform and distributing medicine to handsome officers who fall in love with me in droves. But this… this isn't glamorous. It's just awful."

Silently, I nod. There's certainly no glamour in what we do.

"Some weeks ago, I re-read the letter you sent me to Toronto," Persis continues. "And I saw then how honest you were. Back in Toronto, I only saw what I wanted to see and felt encouraged to come here. But now I saw the rest of it as well. You were trying to warn me, weren't you?"

"Ken was worried about you," I admit after a moment of hesitation. "He had an inkling that… that your mental images of a nurse's work and the war in general were not very realistic. That's why he asked me to write. And I thought it might be helpful for you to know all sides of the matter before you decide." No reason to burden her with the entire story of that letter.

Persis grimaces. "God, I _hate_ it when he's right!" She gives a heavy sigh, shakes her head slightly, before turning back to me.

"How do you do it?" she asks. "You're always so… composed. Endless ambulance transports, patients bleeding to death, air raids… there's nothing left to throw you, is there?"

I blink at her, downright confused. I didn't realize I gave off this impression. Mostly, because I'm _not_ composed. Far too often, I am overcome by the feeling of helplessness in view of the horror surrounding us. And not even half an hour ago, I vomited into the dunes _because_ I was so thrown.

"I've been here for almost two years," I attempt to explain anyhow. "I've just seen so much already, I think. Besides…. It wasn't always like this. Back during the time when I wrote that letter, there were moments when I wondered what would happen if I just lay down and never got up again."

There. There's the truth. I've never yet told anyone, not this succinctly anyhow, but somehow… somehow I have a feeling Persis deserves it.

"What happened?" she asks quietly, observing me through wide eyes.

I shrug. "Your brother happened," I admit. "Everyone always talks about how I saved him and I guess it's not wrong, but… I needed him just as much. I had reached a very dark place last autumn. I wouldn't have made it out of there all on my own. He helped."

Persis nods slowly. "How did he do it?"

"He gave me back my belief in beauty existing in this world still," I answer. "It's so easy to lose yourself, especially considering how many awful things happen here. And yet, it's so important never to lose sight of what is beautiful. It doesn't even have to be a grand gesture – for now, a stroll along the riverbank and this absolutely amazing weather might just be enough. And for tomorrow, it's a letter from home or a kind word."

"You make it sound as though it's easy," Persis protest.

I shake my head. "It's not easy. It might be the hardest thing I've ever done in my life," I correct. "I mean… last night, one of my patients suffocated and the other haemorrhaged, 50 or 60 of my colleagues died and all my possessions were destroyed! It would be very easy to see this world as an unforgivingly evil place. But it's in these moments especially that one should not forget what is beautiful, quiet as it may be sometimes – because otherwise, there might really come a day when you just don't get up anymore."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Bombed last night' from 1917 (source unknown)._

 _Miss MacDonald is Katherine Maud MacDonald (1893-1918). She trained as a nurse at the Victoria Hospital in London, Ontario, and volunteered for duty with the CAMC as a Nursing Sister in March 2917. After serving in England for several months, she was transferred to France in January 1918. The air raids of May 19_ _th_ _surprised her while in bed. She received a wound to an artery and bled to death almost immediately. She is buried at Étaples Military Cemetery._

 _Captain Howes is David Edwin Howes (1877-1918). He graduated from Trinity Medical School (today a part of the University of Toronto) in Toronto in 1906. In 1915, he gave up his practice to volunteer with the CAMC. After spending a year working in England, he was sent to France in November 1917. In the night of May 19_ _th_ _, he had just returned from church service when the bombardment started. Trying to assist the wounded, he was hit by a bomb and killed immediately. He left a wife and four children. His grave is at Étaples Military Cemetery._


	45. Sounding through the village street

_May 24_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France – Villa Tino Hospital for Sick Sisters, Le Touquet, France_

 **Sounding through the village street**

"Is that you, little sister?"

Quickly, I turn my head. I am used to being addressed as 'Sister' but there are only five people in this world who have the right to call me 'little sister'. And only two of them could possibly be here right now.

It's Shirley.

Cap in hand, he stands in front of me. There's one of his almost-smiles on his lips and instinctively, I have to reflect how little the war and the last four years have changed him. Outwardly, I mean. He's thinner than he used to be, but he still looks like my brother and somehow, the thought calms me.

But even as I think it, there's another realization pushing to the forefront of my mind. How very upright he holds himself, how sharply parted his hair is, how pristine his uniform. Even as a child, Shirley had a profound dislike for any kind of disarray and right now, it seems as if this place of chaos has exacerbates that particular trait even more.

I shake the thought off. I'm probably imagining things.

"Brother-darling!" I greet instead and can see his almost-smile deepen into a real one.

I cross over the few yards of ground separating us and am just about to throw my arms around his neck, when a new thought suddenly appears. Abruptly, I stop, eye him warily. "No bad news!" I warn.

Shirley shakes his head. "Not from me," he promises. He wouldn't have deserved being the bearer of bad news once again, I reckon.

And so I continue with my abandoned hug, holding him as tightly as I can. I'm well aware of my passing colleagues casting curious looks at us, but, either down to the familial resemblance being too evident or due to my reputation being rather _too_ spotless, no one approaches us to ask questions.

I do, however, feel Shirley stiffen in my embrace. He has never been overly fond of physical contact, but has always tolerated it with family. Now though, it seems as if he wants to get rid of me as quickly as possible. I consider asking and decide against it. We all have our own demons to grapple with.

"What are you doing here?" I enquire instead after having let go of him again.

"I'm on my way back to my unit and have a couple of hours of wait here, so I figured I'd come and see you. Is that alright?" He looks at me questioningly.

I answer with a decided nod, assuring, "Don't be ridiculous! It could never not be alright! But why didn't you write ahead?"

"Ah, well, you know how it is… there's no knowing if the ships from England are on schedule and with some bad luck, my hours of wait could easily have been shortened to mere minutes," Shirley answers with a shrug. "I thought a surprise is preferable to a disappointment. But if you're busy, I understand completely. I could always try to catch an earlier train."

My scoff is decidedly unladylike. You don't just "catch an earlier train." You take the one train that is intended for you and if that train is seven hours late, you still take that one. It doesn't even matter if, in those seven hours, there are five other trains with the same destination passing by. You still take the train you have been ordered to take.

Shirley laughs softly. "Alright, I won't catch an earlier train," he amends. "But I can still find something else to occupy myself with for a while if you're on duty."

"I'm on night duty at the moment. My shift has just finished and I'm not expected back before the evening. It's only…" I hesitate.

"Only?" Shirley prompts.

"I promised Persis a sick visit this morning," I continue. "She's getting bored lying in that hospital."

A frown appears between Shirley's eyebrows. "Persis is in the hospital? Was she injured when –" He interrupts himself, falls silent.

He's talking about the bombs. I know he is. The thought of them is still enough to make a shiver run down my spine, even now, even five days later.

Quickly, I shake my head. "She's not hurt," I assure. "She just caught that flu the soldiers have brought here recently. It's nothing to worry about."

"Flu? In May?" Shirley raises an eyebrow in surprise.

"Unusual indeed," I confirm. "Even more so, as it seems to infect lots of men. Other than that, it does not differ much from a normal winter flu though. It strikes suddenly and reliably fells the patient, but it is usually gone as quickly. Almost all patients are back up on their feet after a few days. The men call it 'three day fever', and with reason."

"On which day is Persis?" Shirley queries.

I hold up four fingers in the air and he nods, stating "Alright, so we're visiting Persis. Where is she?"

"In a hospital for sick nurses in Le Touquet," I answer. I am already moving to turn around, when I notice Shirley hesitating, so I quickly add, "Is that a problem?"

At first he shrugs, but then nods slowly. "It's an hour's walk until Le Touquet, isn't it? And another half an hour back to the train station in Étaples? I don't have enough time to do the walking _and_ the visiting before my train is scheduled to leave."

I consider him, frowning slightly. I haven't seen Shirley in ten months. I do not want to sacrifice even one minute of our precious time together. But I _have_ promised Persis to come and visit and besides, I want to know if she's truly better. But seeing as I have to sleep at some point, I won't be able to do it in the afternoon. Frustrated, I press my lips together. Thoughts flit around in my mind, as I try to think my way out of this particular problem, but I just don't see a way to reconcile everything.

Just as I want to admit defeat, my eyes land on Dr Lavalliers, just passing by behind Shirley. And in that moment, the longed for idea presents itself.

"I think I know how we're going to do it," I inform Shirley, while already stepping around him. I don't wait for him to answer, but gather up the skirt of my borrowed uniform slightly and hurry towards Dr Lavalliers before he can disappear.

And yes – not ten minutes later Shirley and I are mounted on horseback, trotting along the road leading towards Étaples.

Filou, Dr Lavalliers' gelding, couldn't have been less aptly named. He is no beauty, being a too tall, bony horse with a mud-coloured coat, but he is without a doubt the best behaved, most courteous horse I have ever encountered. Nothing and no one could ever possibly break Filou's calm. Instead, he is always ready to do anything to please his rider. I am, accordingly, grateful to Dr Lavalliers for allowing me to ride him whenever I am in need of a mount.

Shirley, on the other hand, has his hands full with one of the surgeons' mares. That doesn't matter much, because Shirley has enough patience to calm even the most nervous animal, but upon surveying the wiry, nervous mare, I am relieved that this particular lot has bypassed me. I'm not completely without talent when it comes to the handling of horses, but I don't think I'd dare attempt to ride this mare, what with her head-shaking and jumping around.

My brother, however, always much more adept with animals than with fellow humans, sits astride her so securely that he is even able to take in his surroundings. "They hit you pretty well, didn't they?" he asks while surveying the destruction caused by the German air raid with the trained eye of the engineer.

I purse my lips. "It was…" I break off, searching for words, "It was much worse than I ever imagined it could be. But what am I telling you? You know how it is."

Because, as much as the memory of the air raid still weighs on me, I know without any doubt that even those two hours have left me with only the faintest idea of what the men at the front experience daily. I don't think anyone who has not been down in a trench with them can comprehend what they suffer through day after day.

Shirley does, indeed, nod, but doesn't add anything to my words. His eyes are still trained at the destroyed huts.

"The corner of our quarters in which I had my bed in has been destroyed completely," I explain, not without hesitation. "Several sisters fell victim to it. I was on duty and escaped it that way but… there's nothing left of my possessions. I was able to buy a couple of things down in Étaples, but the different pieces of my uniform are borrowed from my fellow sisters. No word yet about when to expect a new uniform from England."

He gives me a sympathetic look, but then fixes his eyes on the rail tracks running parallel to the road. "And yet, you protected them for a long time," he states.

Confused, I look towards the rail tracks, then back to him. I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about. "Who protected what?" I ask.

Shirley meets my gaze. "The rail tracks," he explains, "and probably the entire camp, come to think of it. The decision to build the hospitals as part of the camp likely served for a long time to protect it from being subjected to air raids which otherwise would have come far sooner."

I frown. Is he saying…?

"But it makes sense for the hospitals to be part of a camp," I argue. "The patients usually arrive by ambulance train, so we _need_ the rail tracks, and we also rely on camp logistics."

"Well, yes. But they could have built the hospitals at a slight distance from the camp as well, say five miles or something, and given them their own rail tracks not open to other uses. That would have placed them close enough to still use camp logistics, but far enough away to keep the hospitals out of the firing line."

Swallowing hard, I look down at Filou's shaggy mane while my mind tries to make sense of what he has just told me with such self-assuredness. I reach out, gently stroke Filou's thin neck. Only then do I raise my head again.

"So you're saying they put us so close to the camp on purpose, expecting us to… well, protect it?" I ask.

Shirley raises his shoulders. „At least they would have considered it a very welcome side effect."

And immediately, the memory of the many dozens who died that night in my hospital alone rises within me. I knew many. Some, I liked. If Shirley is now telling me that their deaths rest not so much on some German pilot's conscience but on the one of our own commanders… the thought makes me feel nauseated.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I thought you knew that," my brother apologises, obviously recognizing my discomfort.

"It's alright," I hurry to assure him. "I suppose I should have known. It's just that I'm still pretty naïve when it comes to the tactics of war, considering how long I've been here already." I manage a weak smile.

"No shame in that," Shirley replies without any hesitation. Maybe he's right. Maybe there are worse things one can preserve for oneself than simple naivety.

Still, I sigh softly. "Just don't mention it to Persis," I ask. "That air raid hit her pretty badly. I reckon part of that was down to the first throes of flu as well, but I don't want to upset her, especially seeing as she is still recovering."

"I won't say a thing," Shirley promises. He looks as if he might have said something else, but we have reached Étaples by now and his mare, having calmed down somewhat, grows agitated again at the sight of the bustling village. It takes some moments until Shirley has soothed the prancing horse once more.

Filou flicks an ear to chase off a fly. Filou is a darling.

We cross the bridge stretching over the Canche, pass by the guard who has been posted there to bar the way to Le Touquet for non-officers, and set upon the paths leading towards the pine forest. Only after the trees have closed around us, does Shirley speak once more.

"How's Persis coping with all this?" he asks. "This isn't what you'd call a natural habitat for someone like Persis Ford."

Inclining my head thoughtfully, I answer, "She's actually doing very well. Sometimes, it's surprising to see her react to something already far too familiar to me, but I suppose that tells you more about me than about her. She's tougher than most people give her credit for. Even if her first impulse is to shy away from something, she usually manages to collect her bearings and deal with the problem at hand, often by sheer tenacity. She _refuses_ to fail and sometimes, that's worth a lot. Besides, she abhors nothing as much as the thought of someone taking her for a rich girl – a bit ironic, considering she is exactly that."

Shirley gives me a quick grin while he evades a low-hanging tree branch. "So you're getting along fine?" he then enquires.

"Surprisingly, yes," I confirm. "When one think about how this could have backfired, considering –" Abruptly, I fall silent.

"Considering?" Shirley prompts, eyeing me with interest.

I bite down on my lower lip. Shirley deserves being told the truth about Ken and me, seeing as Walter and Jem already know. And yet… it might sound like superstition, but there's a vague fear within me, as if telling to many people will somehow curse it. As if being to open about my happiness would challenge fate. And as if fate could decide to take it away again, the happiness.

Torn, I look down at Filou's mane. I try to sort it, brush through it with my fingers, only for it to be thrown into disarray with the horse's next step.

But it's futile, isn't it? Nothing I say or do could ever sway fate.

I sigh softly.

"Considering you intend to marry her brother. Was it that what you were saying?" Shirley asks in just that moment.

With a jolt, I raise my head. Shirley is turned towards me. His eyes are kind.

"How…?" But then I catch myself. „No, don't tell me. Jem blabbed, didn't he? You must have seen each other during your leave."

A nod from Shirley. "Jem," he confirms. "You know that he couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it. Bit ironic, seeing as he planned on becoming a spy for so many years as a child."

I manage a laugh, but my thoughts are otherwise occupied. "Whom else did he tell, do you think?" I wonder.

"I don't think he told anyone," Shirley soothes. "He's quick to say stuff that is better left unsaid but the one advantage a letter has is that it can be read over and amended if need be, before it is posted. A word already spoken, on the other hand, is something not even Jem can take back."

"Yes. You might be right," I nod. My gaze moves downwards, fixing on Filou's attentively pricked ears.

"And other than that? What do you think?" I ask tentatively. I know he knows I'm not talking about Jem.

Very cautiously, I look over towards him. Shirley is watching me with mild interest. "I wish the two of you all the best," he says simply and not for the first time I am grateful for his way of not making a fuss, even if the news might warrant it.

"Thank you," I reply, because I don't know what else to say. I'm back to looking at Filou's mane.

"Have you decided when the wedding will be?" Shirley queries.

I sigh heavily, raise my eyes to his once more. He, in turn, raises a questioning eyebrow.

"We will marry before he is sent back to the front. I thought it might be autumn but…" I trail off.

"But they are in need of good officers to make up for the losses of the past two months," Shirley finishes my sentence instead.

Another sigh. "Yes. And Ken's raring to get back to his men, which I totally understand, only… only I would have preferred him to be safe a while longer, even if that would have meant postponing the wedding even further," I explain.

Shirley nods thoughtfully. "When will he come back?"

"They just transferred him from a convalescent hospital to the Officers Casualty Company," I reply.

"Where they normally stay for four weeks," Shirley remarks matter-of-factly. As if I hadn't already known that.

Mutely, I nod. Shirley has his mare walk a little closer to Filou, then, after a momentary hesitation, reaches out and squeezes my arm, for the shortest of seconds. I manage to pull up a smile from somewhere and receive one back. Then his mare jumps to the side and the moment is past.

Silence falls between us, only pierced by the wind rustling through the trees and the regular clapping sound of the horses' hooves. I close my eyes, turn my face into the wind and take a deep breath. For a moment, the war feels very far away.

Then I hear the whistling of a train somewhere behind us and the war comes flooding back.

I open my eyes, turn towards Shirley. "And what about you? Anything of note?" I ask. We've talked about me long enough now, I reckon.

Shirley shrugs. "Our company was made into a battalion," he states. "Some smaller units have been added, and it should make us more independent and more versatile. For me, it means that they promoted me to captain." He grimaces slightly, obviously not very happy with that particular fact.

"You'll be a good captain," I assure with the loyalty of a sister.

"I'll certainly try," Shirley replies, but his eyes remain doubtful. He's much more drawn to lonely tinkering than to human interaction, there's no denying that.

I want to say something, something to encourage him, but he's already changing the subject. "Carl was promoted as well, by the way. He told me when we saw each other some days ago."

I blink at him, surprised. „ _Carl_?"

The truth is that Carl has turned into a bit of a phantom in my mind. Like a ghost. It's been so many years since I last saw him that he has become unreal. He's just a memory, out at sea. That Shirley has, once again, met him, is a lot to wrap my mind around.

"Yes, _Carl_ ," Shirley confirms with a little smile. He obviously realizes how much the sudden mention of our old childhood friend throws me.

"He's leading seaman now," he continues, "And not particularly happy about it. He prefers to be one of those rowing."

"Like you," I point out.

Shirley grimaces. "Only that captain is quite a different beast from leading seaman."

"No argument there," I nod. Then I raise my head and point to a fork in the road, some yards ahead. "Look, we have to turn left there."

The _Villa Tino Hospital for Sick Sisters_ is idyllically set in a small clearing in the midst of the pine wood surrounding Le Touquet. The building itself used to be the home of a well-to-do person and it shows. It is a sprawling, two-storied, timber-framed house with several alcoves and tall windows. As a hospital, it is open to all nurses and VADs from England or her dominions. Severe cases are usually treated in No. 24 GH over in Étaples, but if convalescence is the order of the day, Villa Tino is to be preferred.

"Nice," Shirley remarks, raising both eyebrows.

"Only the best for us nurses," I reply with a fine smile that Shirley counters with a shake of his head.

We tether our horses, which Filou deals with much more calmly than the surgeon's mare, and then I lead Shirley over to the entrance. The sisters on duty already know me from my visits of the past days, so they only nod in greeting as we walk through the house.

Upon reaching the room I know Persis to be in, I raise a hand and knock on the door. In the past four days, I have found her lying in bed, her condition pitiful. Fever, coughing, pain in the head and limbs… the flu might not be fatal, but that's not to say it doesn't let the patient suffer. Today, however, it looks as if the three-day-fever has lived up to its name, because as soon as we enter the room, my eyes land on Persis, sitting upright in her bed.

"Finally! I've been waiting for ages!" she exclaims indignantly.

And I'm so glad that she is better, and it is so typically _Persis_ that I can't help it – I start laughing. Not even Shirley's questioning glance or the accusing one of Persis are enough to hinder me. I stand in the middle of the room, laughing – and by God, it feels _good_ , that laugh.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Goodbye, Dolly Gray' from the 19_ _th_ _century (lyrics by Will D. Cobb, music by Paul Barnes)._


	46. Nothing to mar our joy

_June 3_ _rd_ _, 1918  
No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France_

 **Nothing to mar our joy**

"You're not allowed to die, by the way. I forbid it," Persis informs me quite matter-of-factly and no less determinedly, while dragging on the last remains of her cigarette.

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

We're sitting in the dunes behind my hospital, letting the evening sun warm our faces. I still have an hour or two before my shift starts and Persis returned from England only this afternoon. After her illness, she was granted a week of sick leave and decided to spend it in Hastings. It's a well-known seaside resort, but it is also where Jem is stationed. The neighbouring town, Bexhill-on-Sea houses the Officers Casualty Company, where Ken is currently in his second week of training. Persis, accordingly, has rather a lot to tell about the past days. Recovering from flu seems to have been rather an afterthought.

"Yes," she affirms with a nod. "I won't allow you to die."

"Then you will be pleased to hear that I have no intention of dying," I reply. " _I_ didn't catch any flu after all, did I?"

Persis just waves this away airily. "I do mean it," she persists, while stubbing out her cigarette in the sand.

Through narrowed eyes, I consider her for a moment. She does appear to be serious, so I sit up a little straighter, turn towards her and ask, "Alright. Why am I not allowed to die?"

"Because I have no idea what it would do to my brother. And because I don't ever want to find out," she answers abruptly.

I take a deep breath.

"You mean –" I begin, but Persis cuts me off.

"I _mean_ the air raids. Two raids in two weeks!" she exclaims.

As if I need to be reminded of that.

The second attack came in the last night of May, when we hand only started to recover from the first one. It was, simultaneously, worse and not as bad as the first time. Worse, because wards A and B were damaged, which are our femur wards, where the patients are immobilized by their splints and thus completely at the mercy of our attackers. Not as bad because the bombs only hit those two wards and some administration huts, and did their damage only among buildings and not among humans. Whether it was a miracle or not, I don't know, but we had only one casualty and that was a patient who got injured. This time, at least, no one died. Our neighbours at the St. John's Ambulance Brigade Hospital didn't escape as lightly. If we bore the brunt of the first air raid, they did it the second time.

In some ways, we were partly prepared for the second attack, though. The sides of the huts were fortified with sandbags after the first one, which helped prevent further damage. And ever since, some of the sisters spend their nights in Merry Lodge, a rest home for nurses in Le Touquet. The rest of them sleep out in the woods, until the dugout currently under construction is finished. They are said to be quite a lot of fun, those nights under the trees, from what I've been told. Not that I could offer an opinion on it, seeing as I still spend my nights on duty at the moribund ward, but I suppose it's good to see the positive side in this. It helps in keeping a grasp on one's sanity.

Still, all the sandbags and dugouts in the world can't sufficiently prepare someone for an air raid. When the bombs fall, everyone is scared.

"I was with him when news of the second attack came," Persis continues, quieter now. "And I won't mind never having to see the look on his face ever again. He became very pale and so terribly _still_. His face was entirely stony and he hardly said a thing anymore. It took hours until he found someone to confirm to him that no nurses were among the casualties. After that, he sent me away. When I came back the next day, I could still smell the whiskey on him."

She looks straight at me and I have to fight down the urge to turn away. Persis, in sharp contrast to myself, holds eye contact even when things are difficult. And this _is_ difficult. Because I know how much it upsets her to have seen Ken hurt. And as for me, the thought alone makes me feel pain that is almost physical.

I shrug, somewhat helplessly. "I'm fine," I murmur.

"But you could have been dead," Persis points out. "I mean, how many nurses died during the first air raid?"

"Three, in total. Miss Wake and Miss Lowe died of wounds some days later," I answer. My voice sounds composed, but the memory of those three funerals stills fills me with a special kind of sadness. Funerals I have seen more than enough, but it is different to bury a fellow sister – one of _us_.

Persis nods curtly. "There you go. That could have been you," she declares.

And somehow, that causes something within me to break. Abruptly, I sit up. Now it's me holding her gaze.

"Do you think I don't _know_ that?" I hiss. "Those were _my_ quarters. That was _my_ old ward. I probably should have died then. That I didn't might be down to fate or just some stupid, lucky coincidence. I don't know! But what is it to _you_?"

Through the haze surrounding me I am vaguely aware that Persis doesn't deserve my outburst. It's not even what she said. It's two air raids and three funerals and a bottle of whiskey and the German army 35 miles from Paris. It's a breaking point I hadn't known I had reached.

But now that she has pushed me there, I suddenly don't know how to get back.

Persis, never one to give in easily, glares back at me, pushing her chin forward in challenge. "Because he is _my_ brother," she snarls. "So I have every right to be worried when –"

Harshly, I interrupt her. „Don't talk to me about being worried. I have two brothers out there. I have forgotten how it is not to be worried every day, every _hour_!"

That, at least, is the truth. Over the years, the worry has become part of my very self. Something that is always present, so I don't consciously take note of it most of the time, until someone comes to remind me. Then it comes back, suddenly and violently, like a slap to the face.

"So you have a monopoly on being worried now, do you?" Persis shoots back. "I'm _very_ sorry for only having one brother to be concerned about. But that's not enough to keep up with you, is it? Not with the _perfect_ Sister Blythe!" Her voice is drenched in sarcasm.

I want to reply – say something sharp, probably hurtful – when someone else beats me to it. Tim. "Ladies! Ladies! We don't want to fight, do we?" he remarks cheerfully and sits down between us.

Quickly, I turn away, to look out at the river.

Tim, however, is not yet finished. "Alright. You, kindly stop murdering me with your eyes, please. I have little doubt you're capable of doing it and I quite like my life, thanks all the same" he good-naturedly asks of Persis.

She murmurs something incomprehensible. Somehow, she manages to sound both rebellious and sheepish.

"And you," Tim continues, now addressed in my direction, "will now tell us what happened."

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance over at him. He seems perfectly relaxed. I hurry to look away again. "Nothing happened," I answer morosely.

"Ah, but lying is a sin, Miss Blythe," Tim retorts, obviously teasing.

I can feel his eyes on me, silently urging me on. Still, I stare straight ahead, stubbornly refusing to speak.

When Tim does instead, his voice is kinder. "Because we know that something did happen. Persis here might be known for picking a fight without reason, just because she feels like it, but that's not your way."

"Hey!" Persis interjects immediately. As expected.

But instead of a long litany of protest, as I had figured we were in for, there's just silence. Very slightly, I turn my head, so I can just see them out of the corner of my eye. Tim has one hand on Persis's arm and silently seems to communicate something to her. Slowly, she starts to calm down.

Almost without any of us noticing, he has become a better friend to her than to me in recent months. I know it. I don't even mind.

Then, very suddenly, both turn towards me, and I quickly turn away. My gaze moves downward, fixes on the sand next to me knee. Without thinking, I reach out a hand, bury my fingers in the cool soil. When I pull the hand back, opening my fist, grains of sand flutter to the ground.

"Betty is dead," I say quietly.

For several seconds, no one says anything.

"Betty," Tim repeats softly.

"You don't know her. _Didn't_ know her," I continue, my gaze still fixed on the trickling sand. "But she was my friend. We came over from Canada together. She was kind to me when I was pretty alone. She didn't need to be kind. I haven't seen her in one and a half years and I didn't write to her as often as I should have. She, on the other hand, wrote a letter each week, without fail, even if I didn't deserve it. And now she's _dead_."

The last grains of sand leave my fist.

"What happened?" asks Tim gently.

I press my lips together, bury my fingers deep into the sand. "She died during the air raid on Doullens last week," I explain.

I still remember the feeling taking hold of me in the exact moment I realized that Nursing Sister Elizabeth Wilson wasn't just any other sister having died in the bombing, but _my_ Betty. Then, seconds later, the thought of what it will do to Polly, and Betty's family, her siblings – Edith and Olive and Myra and Charlie, her _Little Prince_.

Now it's me on whose arm Tim lies a comforting hand. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"Me, too!" Persis exclaims much more fiercely. As I look over to her, she blushes slightly. "For what I said," she adds, more subdued. "If I had known…" She trails off, helpless.

"It's alright," I assure. "I started it, after all."

Then I sigh softly. All anger has left me, as quickly as it came. Now I just feel weary. Sad and terribly weary. I pull my hand out of the sand, pensively observing the grains of sand still stuck to my fingers.

"I'm no perfect nurse, by the way," I remark without looking at either of them.

"You play the role very well," Persis replies but it doesn't sound unkind. As I turn my head, I see a lopsided little smile clinging to her lips and sympathy in her eyes.

And maybe she has hit the nail on the head in this. Maybe that's really what I'm doing. What I have been doing all along.

"I once declared a patient to be dead who wasn't," I tell them thoughtfully, letting my eyes stray back toward the river. "The reason I can't set foot into an operating theatre anymore is that I lose my head the moment someone uses a bone saw. Every time one of them dies, I ask myself what _the hell_ I'm even doing here. And I never, in my whole life, was as terrified as I was during those air raids."

I try for a smile that won't come and settle for a sigh instead.

Moments later, two arms have wound themselves tightly around my neck. It's Persis, having reached far enough over Tim to hug me. For as quickly as her temper is to flare, it usually settles back down as easily. It takes more than some heated words to awake Persis Ford's scorn. (Leaving her brother seems to be a sure-fire way to do that, but it's not like I'd ever do _that_.)

Tim, meanwhile, observes us with the kind of long-suffering yet indulgent gaze of a father watching his daughters make up after a childish quarrel. "Are we all friends again?" he enquires calmly.

Persis leans back so that she can look at him. "We had a disagreement. We never stopped being friends," she informs him.

Then, looking back at me, she adds, "And seeing as our disagreement has been resolved, I don't feel bad about giving you this." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a letter and holds it out for me to take.

It takes but a seconds for me to recognize the handwriting. Those forceful, straight, unfussy strokes I'd know among hundreds. Immediately, my heart picks up speed.

I carefully take the letter from her and open it with as much caution. Without yet knowing what it entails, I'm already aware of it being important, for otherwise Ken wouldn't have given it to Persis for personal delivery.

I'm vaguely aware of Tim and Persis talking quietly, but I don't hear a word of what they say. Instead, my eyes move over the lines, once, twice, a third time. When I finally lower the letter, they both fall silent in an instant. Two curious pairs of eyes fix on my face.

"Do tell, Persis," I ask slowly, "Who is Diane de Foix?"

For several seconds, Persis just stares at me, astonished. I guess she has expected every question but this.

"Diane de –" she starts, before interrupting herself. Shaking her head slightly, she looks first at me, then at the letter on my hand, quite as if neither it nor I were quite sane anymore. I meet her gaze expectantly and after several more moments, she sighs heavily, obviously giving in.

"My mother met Diane de Foix when she holidayed in France ten years ago," she explains. "She is French and high-born, with her father being an earl. She was married to a Scottish nobleman – Baron Northwick? Something like that. She did always speak kindly of her husband, but less so of his draughty castle up in the Highlands. Seeing as he was apparently baffled by her Parisian parties, they had amicably agreed to live separate lives even then, though she can't have been older than thirty."

Tim clicks his tongue. " _Très_ scandalous," he grins.

Persis laughs. "You'd be surprised at what nobility can get away with! We mere mortals could never afford to engage in similar behaviour," she informs him. "Diane de Foix, for I've never once heard anyone call her anything else, was one of the most glamourous creatures I have ever seen, then and since. I don't think she was classically beautiful, but terribly elegant. I was in total awe of her and struck mute every time she deigned to speak to me. This, admittedly, didn't happen all that often, because I was at an age when I was still sent to bed early at night. Ken knew her better than I did, because he was already old enough the spend the evenings with the adults."

A knowing smirk flits across Tim's face, but as I look at him questioningly, he just shakes his head.

"And why did you want to know that?" Persis asks me impatiently and I turn back to her.

"Because," I answer slowly, "Ken has been granted two weeks of leave after training is over. He has asked me to come to Paris at the end of the month. Diane de Foix will be my hostess."

Immediately, two pairs of eyes turn towards me. Tim's gaze is knowing, that of Persis wide-eyed and excited. "Ohhhh! So you're getting married?" she asks, eyes shining, covering her mouth with both hands.

A tiny smile slips on my lips. Then I nod, just the slightest of movements.

Persis lowers her hands, revealing a wide grin. "Then we'll be sisters!" she announces and sounds so delighted by the thought that I instinctively reach across Tim and squeeze her hand.

She returns the squeeze, but then, very suddenly, the grin falls from her face, to be replaced with a frown. "But oh – I will never get another day of leave so soon after coming back," she remarks sadly, pushing her lower lip forward in a pout.

She's right, obviously. They wouldn't grant her leave this quickly after having returned even if it were her _own_ wedding day.

Persis sighs softly, but then calls herself to order, shaking her head forcefully. I can almost see how she struggles to fight down her own disappointment, lest it put a damper my joy.

"Oh, well, nothing to be done about it, I suppose. But you'll have to describe it to me in minute detail once you are back," she declares bravely.

Her words give me pause. Then I cast a helpless look at Tim, who raises both eyebrows in answer. Persis, of course, doesn't miss this.

" _What_? What is the matter?" she demands to know.

My eyes turn pleading. Tim sighs mutely, before turning to Persis. "Rilla won't come back. When she marries, she has to resign," he explains.

A deep frown appears between Persis's eyebrows. "Yes, I remember…" she murmurs. "Ken mentioned that there was such a rule for you. Only he wasn't particularly unhappy about it."

"And who can blame him?" replies Tim. "She's much safer from German bombs in England or Canada."

"England," I am quick to interject. "I'll stay in England." How could I go back to Canada when German artillery has been firing on Paris for several days now? I'd be safer there, but what could I possibly do but to sit and wait, thousands of miles from where I want to be?

Tim nods. "England, then," he agrees. He needs no explanation, Tim does.

Persis has resumed pouting, but doesn't argue. "We'll miss you," she states. "Won't we, Tim?" Her eyes move to him, expectantly.

"Truth to be told," I answer in his stead, "Tim won't be here for very long either. Our hospital is being moved. The order came through yesterday and they already started dismantling it this morning. We haven't had any new patients since that first attack and yesterday, our last stretcher cases were transported to England. Now it's just walking wounded and it looks like they'll be gone in a few days as well."

"That's why it's so empty at your hospital," Persis murmurs, then gives a frustrated sigh. "So I lose both of you at the same time?" Her attempt at gallows' humour only partly succeeds. The thought seems to truly weigh on her.

I lean forward, gently touch her arm. In thanks, I receive a weak smile.

"I don't want to jinx it," Tim remarks hesitatingly, "But I asked to be transferred over to No. 7 CGH. It doesn't look as if they'll be leaving Étaples anytime soon. If my application if approved, I can stay."

The relief Persis feels at his words is almost palpable. "That would be great!" she exclaims.

Tim smirks. "Ah, well, you know how it is. This place does grow on you with time…" he states, accompanied by an exaggerated movement of the arm, to encompass the camp around us.

And that entire sentence is so absurd, that all three of us start laughing as if on cue. As if this horrible camp could ever grow on anyone. Not in a hundred years!

"So the two of us will continue to paint Étaples red while Rilla goes AWOL," Persis observes with a satisfied smile. Then her gaze falls on me. "And you! You're getting _married_!" she announces excitedly and her smile widens.

I return the smile.

And yet, I can't completely share in with Persis's excitement. I'm happy, really, deliriously so. But there's another feeling stirring within me, one that jars and pricks. It's a diffuse kind of fear, like a nameless threat. I don't dare feeling too happy.

Because happiness is a fickle thing. And one never knows when it will decide to leave.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'If you were the only girl in the world' from 1916 (lyrics by Clifford Grey, music by Nat D. Ayer)._

 _Miss Wake is Gladys Maud Mary Wake (1883-1918). She trained as a nurse at Royal Jubilee Hospital School of Nursing in Victoria until 1912. Shortly before the outbreak of war, she moved to England with her family. In 1916, she joined the CAMC, served in England for a year in total, and, in-between, for one year in Salonica as well. She was posted to France only one week before the air raid of May 19_ _th_ _, 1918, during which she received severe wounds to both legs as well as burns. She died two days later and was buried on Étaples Military Cemetery._

 _Miss Lowe is Margaret Ann Lowe (1888-1918). Born in Scotland, she moved to Canada with her family and trained as a nurse at Winnipeg Civic Hospital until 1916. After volunteering with the CAMC in 1917, she served in England for several months before being sent to France in January 1918. During the air raid of May 19_ _th_ _, 1918, she suffered chest wounds and a fractured skull. She died after about one week, without ever regaining consciousness, and was buried at Étaples Military Cemetery._


	47. Still a girl of tender years

_June 20_ _th_ _, 1918  
Paris, France_

 **Still a girl of tender years**

Slowly, I stroll along the wide street, periodically letting my gaze travel upwards, to where the Parisian townhouses tower above me. They exude the kind of cool elegance that is unique to this city. Impressive, in a way, and yet intimidating as well. As if it wanted to make it clear to all outsiders that they should never be so misguided as to presume they could ever belong.

I have been offered a driver to fetch me from the train station, but I politely refused. It would only have meant a waste of precious petrol and besides, a nice walk through Paris never goes amiss. It might carry its nose a little too high, that Paris, but it is a decidedly pretty nose, as my mum would say. If one is willing to show adequate humility, there are worse ways to spend half an hour than by strolling through its streets.

Besides, it's a relief to see that, while those reports about the shelling of Paris have not been inaccurate, the damage has been mild. She has been hurt, but she wears her wounds with both pride and defiance, the _grande dame_ of this proud, defiant country.

It could have easily turned out very differently. There was a moment, not even two weeks ago, when the Germans moved towards Paris with alarming speed. It was 1914, all over again. But as they did in 1914, the brave French stood up and met their opponents as one. _On ne passe pas_ , indeed. It was a counterattack at the last minute, as it has been a spring of last minutes. First Amiens, then Ypres, now Paris. It is, in light of all the miles of ground the Germans took from us, a small comfort that they were thwarted in reaching their ultimate goals at the very least.

And yet, one cannot help but wonder what the summer will bring.

I sigh, pushing the thought from my mind. Just a few steps later, I stop in front of one of the houses. A quick glance at the slip of paper in my hand confirms that I have reached my destination. The house is no less impressive than its neighbours, and I take a deep breath before I ring the doorbell.

Several moments pass. Just as I consider ringing again, the door opens and woman sticks her head outside. She appears to be around forty, wears a uniform that is very different from my own, and eyes me suspiciously. "Yes?" she asks in French.

"My name is Marilla Blythe. I am here to see…" I break off. I have no idea what to call my hostess. Madame de Foix? Lady Northwick?

Somewhat helplessly, I look towards the concierge. The disdainful expression on her face leaves little doubt about what she thinks of me, but she nods curtly and takes a step back. "Madame is expecting you," she informs me coolly, before turning around, leaving me to quickly catch the door before it falls shut behind her.

The concierge leads me up an elegant staircase, to the second floor. With a nod of her head she indicates one of the doors, then leaves without another word. I pause in front of the door for several moments, listen to the sound of her footsteps growing fainter and wonder what kind of person my hostess well be, seeing as even her concierge obviously doesn't consider me to be at all adequate.

But there's no helping it, is there? So I square my shoulders, raise my chin and, once more, ring a doorbell. And once more, a little while passes before the door actually opens. The moment it does, I immediately recognise the woman in front of me as Lady Northwick, née Diane de Foix. She couldn't possibly be anyone else.

Even at first glance, I know what Persis meant when she described her. Diane de Foix is no classic beauty – her features are cut too sharply, her nose is rather too aquiline, her lips a bit too thin – but she wears her expensive clothing with such inimitable elegance that every possible flaw is immediately forgotten. More than that, there's a perspicacious glint in her eyes that tells me at once that I do not want to get on the wrong side of this woman.

Right now, these same eyes fixate on me, scrutinising me openly, and I feel instinctively grateful for my nurse's uniform. For I might not be as elegant or as expensively dressed as Diane de Foix, nor as sophisticated, but no one could ever accuse me of not making myself useful.

"You must be Rilla," my hostess greets me and her voice sounds exactly like I expected it to sound. "I am Diane." Which at least settles the question of the correct form of address.

A pause. "Good afternoon," I reply finally. I speak French, as she has done, even though the wife of a Scottish baron should, normally, be capable of speaking English.

Diane accepts my greeting with a gracious nod, then takes a step back and invites me inside with a movement of her hand. I follow her into the flat, through an expensively and tastefully decorated hall, and to a salon surpassing it on both accounts. In one corner of the room, I spy a housemaid who leaves after a wordless order from Diane. She, in turn, sits down on a chaise longue and indicates for me to take a seat opposite her.

Several seconds pass, during which she surveys me intently. Her face does not betray a single thought.

"So you are Kenneth's bride," she finally remarks in composed tones. "Well, you will make him a pretty wife for sure."

Then, without waiting for an answer, she leans forward to where a tea set has been carefully arranged on the side table. "You'll want tea. The English always want tea," she states.

Her voice is polite, even cheerful, but as I watch her pour out two cups of tea, I realize how her words irk me. I have realized instinctively that being pretty is nothing to be proud of in the eyes of this woman. Pretty is something one is or is not – it doesn't take much either way. And that her opinion on the British in general is not an unequivocally positive one, I don't doubt either, and I don't even think it's solely down to her Scottish husband and his draughty Highland castle.

"Actually, I am Canadian, but yes, I would like a cup of tea," I inform her. "Though I do not think that Ken wants to marry me only because he expects me to make a pretty picture when on his arm." I'm vaguely aware of my voice sounding a bit sharp and the words being quite insolent, but somehow, I don't care. This woman isn't better than me, just because she has apparently decided it so.

For one or two seconds, Diane pauses in her movement. Then, she carefully sets down the tea pot and straightens the lacy cloth on the table. When she finally raises her eyes to meet mine, there's something new to be seen in them. It almost looks like… curiosity? As if I have only become interesting by my impudence.

Once more, moments pass while she scrutinizes me for a third time, apparently looking for something she missed earlier. Whatever she sees now, it seems to satisfy her, because when she leans back against her chaise longue, she replies, "No, I don't think so either." And then she smiles, a slow, amused, somewhat ironic smile and I'm starting to understand why Ken sent me to see this woman.

I reach for one of the cups. The tea is far too sweet, but I still take a long sip. I am very aware of Diane's eyes, considering me over the brim of her own cup.

"It is interesting work, no? The work of a nurse?" she enquires finally.

The sound of it is casual, but I look at her a little warily anyway. "Yes, it is," I answer cautiously. I don't quite see where she's heading with this.

She gives a tiny nod, as if I have only confirmed what she has known to begin with. "That's what I thought," she replies. "All these young, well-trained men in various stages of undress…"

And that remark, while not strictly untrue, is so _absurd_ and so utterly unsuitable for polite conversation between two strangers, that I instinctively start laughing. And only when I notice her satisfied gaze do I realize that it was a test and that I have, somehow, passed it.

The ice, at least, is broken.

We spend the next thirty minutes chatting quite amiably. At first, we talk about my work, then about life in Paris and the effect the war has had on the city, and finally she tells me a bit about that time, ten years ago, when she met the Fords. And sometime in the middle of it I realize, not without surprise, that I am enjoying myself. It does, admittedly, take some effort, because I am constantly on guard, lest I say something stupid and embarrass myself in front of this clever, cultivated woman. But now that she has decided me to be worthy, Diane shares with me her quick-witted observances and her sharp humour and when half an hour has passed, it feels as if I have known her for much longer.

She is just regaling me with a very funny and very malicious description of her sister-in-law when there's a tentative knock. Seconds later, the door opens, revealing the housemaid. "Madame?" she asks cautiously, before quickly looking over her shoulder.

Diane nods knowingly. "Ah, yes. It looks as if your guest has returned from his walk," she explains for my benefit, while ordering the housemaid back into the hall with a wave of her hand.

"My guest?" I ask, frowning. I have no idea what – or rather, _who_ – she's talking about. Ken won't be here before tomorrow and beside, he'd hardly be _my_ guest. And I'm not expecting anyone else. As far as I know, Persis and Tim are the only two people even aware of my being here today.

My questioning gaze is, however, only met with a knowing smile of Diane's, before she indicates the open door. Voices carry over from the hall, then footsteps, and finally, another person enters the room. In a flash, I am on my feet.

"Walter!" I exclaim. I haven't seen him in almost half a year.

"Hello, Rilla-my-Rilla," greets Walter with one of his Walter smiles.

Diane rises to her feet as well, much slower than I did. "I'll leave you two to it," she declares and moves to exit the room. As she passes him, she gives Walter a once-over and it's obvious that she likes what she sees. I suppress a smile. She's not the first woman to rue the Roman collar he wears.

The door closes behind Diane and I turn to look at Walter again. "When did you arrive? And how did you know I would be here?" I want to know.

"Good afternoon to you, too, my darling sister," Walter offers in return, his eyes twinkling at me amusedly. I meet his gaze, decidedly unamused by his stalling.

Still, he takes his time in putting an arm around my shoulders and pressing a kiss to my forehead, before steering me to one of the chaises longues. Only after he has sat down and I have curled up right next to him, does he deign to answer, "I arrived this morning. Your groom asked me to be here. They don't allow Jem to come to France without good reason and Shirley has only just been on leave, so I was the only option. He thought you might like to have one of us at your side tomorrow."

Tomorrow. My heart skips a little at the thought.

"And he was right," I confirm and wonder, not for the first time, how it is that Ken knows me so well.

I have changed so much in the past two years that I increasingly look back with no small amount of incredulity at the girl I once was. I was Rilla of Ingleside – now I am Rilla of Nowhere, and while I wouldn't change anything about it, I sometimes miss the day when I knew where I belonged with such certainty. Those were easier times.

To have Walter here, on the day when, maybe, I'll be _of Nowhere_ no longer, means so very much. Because even if I fail at it, he might yet manage to forge a connection between the woman I am today and the girl I must have been. This laughing, glorious creature that I can't find within me anymore. There a days when I envy her, because the future was a great adventure to her, while my future scares me, more than anything.

"What's on your mind, Rilla-my-Rilla?" Walter asks gently.

I start, then quickly shake my head. "Just… things. I guess I drifted off just there. I'm sorry," I apologise with a smile.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers.

My first impulse, born out of habit, is to decline, but then I stop myself. This is _Walter_. And isn't it true that I really do want to talk about it?

"Oh, it's just…" I answer with a sigh, "I just thought about how I used to be and how… how _excited_ for life I was as a girl. I was convinced that life was a beautiful promise of many wonderful things, just waiting to be explored. And, well – look at our life now. What's wonderful about it, I ask you?"

"I could name several things," Walter replies, without a second of hesitation.

I stare up at him incredulously and he smiles upon noticing it. "There's you yourself, for one, Rilla-my-Rilla," he states. "No one loved the girl from times past more than I did, but she grew up to be an equally wonderful woman. I know you don't always see yourself this way, but the rest of us do. We're all so incredibly proud of you."

"You are?" My voice is small.

"Of course we are!" Walter assures. "Mostly because it _isn't_ easy and yet you stick to it. Shirley once said that not even for two weeks would he be able to bear doing what you've been doing for two years now, and I'm inclined to agree with him. Jem won't hear a critical word about you anyway. You're doing wonderful work, little sister."

It's curious, to hear him say that. I never knew that my brothers think about me in this way, that they even talk about it. Still, it's a lovely thought.

"It is… very kind of you to say that," I reply hesitantly. "Even more so because I don't think that they see it quite in the same way at home."

Now it's Walter, looking at me incredulously. "Are you joking?" he asks. "Mum always writes about how Dad tells everyone who wants to hear it – and probably many that _don't_ want to – about what a talented and skilful nurse his daughter is. And you better believe me that Mum backs him up on it every time! If you read Di's articles, you'd know that she mentions you in them regularly. So does Mildred, by the way. And as for Nan… Faith wrote that Irene Howard – or Irene MacAllister, I should say – made a snide comment about nurses last month and that Nan, upon hearing on it, went into a right fury. According to Faith, it must have been quite the scary sight."

I open my mouth to speak, but no words will come, so I close it again. Instead, I look down at my hands, then back up to Walter. It's one thing to hear that my brothers and parents are proud of me – but that Di mentions me in her articles and that Nan is defending me against that awful Irene Howard? That does surprise me.

"It's you keeping them at a distance, Rilla, not them," Walter points out gently.

I sigh heavily. "I know I do it," I whisper. "I don't _want_ to do it, but… but I don't know how not to. I don't want them to be sad or to worry, so I write my letters as cheerfully as possible and somehow… somehow, the distance between us seems to grow larger with every letter I send. And I stand here and don't know how to cross that distance."

"You could always start by telling them of your impending marriage," Walter suggests.

Slowly, I nod. Then I sigh again. "I will. Of course I will. It's just… I'm not married yet. Ken's not yet here. His ship could sink, his train derail. So many things could happen to prevent it. I always have this feeling that if I tell someone about the marriage, it won't ever happen," I try to explain.

Walter laughs softly. "Well, I suppose to believe in superstition is a kind of belief as well," he jokes and I have to smile despite myself.

"I do what I can," I retort. "And what's more, I promise you that I will write to them. Even if I'm not sure if it will help."

"Why not?" Walter asks.

Tilting my head back, I breathe out slowly. I takes a moment until I have gathered myself enough to answer, "Somehow, I can't shake the feeling that I – that I don't _deserve_ it. I lived in what I now realize was a form of paradise, if you'll allow the comparison. Only, I didn't see it then. I was so eager to find out what lies behind its borders and I closed the gate behind me. The real world I have seen now, but I understood too late that I cannot go back anymore. Even if I were to get on the next ship to Canada… it would be different. I could never truly go back there, I think. I'm afraid that the paradise of our childhood is finally and forever lost to me and that scares me."

Walter nods slowly while considering my words. "I agree that it probably truly is. But that's not true only for you, but your all of us. It is the curse of growing up, enhanced a hundred fold by the reality we live in. But that we have lost this paradise doesn't mean that we won't ever find another one." His smile is both kind and encouraging.

I meet his gaze, still sceptical. "How do you know that?"

"I don't know it. But I _believe_ it," Walter replies and allows himself another smile at his joke. I roll my eyes a little, but can't help smiling back.

Then I sigh. "Sometimes, I don't know what to believe in anymore," I admit. "To think that there's a God up there who allows all of this to happen… it's hard. There are days when I wish for Him to be there and that He still sees some logic in it that we are unable to understand. And then there are days when I wouldn't even want to know Him if I could be sure of His existence."

Pensively, Walter looks at me, inclining his head slightly. "If you feel it's hard to believe in God – what do you say to believing in mankind instead?" he asks.

I cannot help an unladylike snort. " _Mankind_? It might have escaped your notice, but it's _humans_ committing these atrocities in the first place."

Walter nods, very composed. "That is correct," he admits. "But in the same way that this war brings out the worst in people, it also reveals the best in them. And for every atrocity I have seen, I have also witnessed something beautiful."

"What do you mean?" I query, not without hesitation.

"It's the little things," Walter answers, "And when one knows where to look for them, they can be found every day. It's the private carrying his wounded comrade in from No Man's Land. It's the medic, himself mortally wounded, who treats another soldier lying injured in a shell crater and, even in death, holds on so tightly that the other man survives. It's the company that adopts an old stray dog and, when he dies in the deepest of winters, hack at the frozen earth for hours until they have dug him a grave. It's the captain leaving the trench by himself to repair the barbed wire, instead of sending one of his men to do it. And it's the nurse, not resting before the very last patient has not been cared for."

I frown, considering his words. Can he be right?

"Look here, little sister. I can understand how easy it is to lose your faith in God in this war, same as I can understand how the war can teach someone to believe for the first time," Walter adds. "But whatever you might think of God, I ask you not to lose your faith in your fellow humans. We might be flawed, but we are not evil, or even truly bad. And there's no one else but us to take this wounded world and make it a better one."

"Do you believe it possible then? A better world?" I ask softly.

"I know it," Walter answers. There's no doubt in his voice.

I don't reply. Instead, I turn my attention inwards, try to find out what he words have aroused within me. If I might be able to believe in what he knows with such certainty.

And yes, there's something different, something new. There's also scepticism and the old wariness, and even that horrible hopelessness that assails me in the darkest of nights. But next to it – next to it is a small flicker of light that has not been there before. A flicker that maybe couldn't have been lit by anyone but Walter.

And then there's something else. A burning feeling behind my eyes, the kind of which I haven't felt in a long time. I blink. A tears falls, followed by a second, and then another one. Surprised I raise my hand, touch my wet cheeks.

Walter looks down at me. "Good tears?" he asks softly.

I nod.

The tears left me, not long after the dreams did. So often have I wished them back. So often have I thought that it would be easier, if only I could find my tears once again. It needed my brother, my wonderful, steadfast big brother, to find them for me. For this might be Walter's greatest gift – no one but him knows how to find what we cannot see, even if it has slumbered within us the entire time.

"Good tears," I assure. Then I move closer to him, into the arms he has opened for me, and press my face against his shoulder. I let him hold me while I cry, for several long minutes.

For these are all the tears that, for many, many weeks, I have been unable to cry.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Never mind!' from 1913 (lyrics and music by Harry Dent and Tom Goldburn)._


	48. Don't lay the blame on me

_June 21_ _st_ _, 1918  
Paris, France_

 **Don't lay the blame on me**

"Get up!" demands a merciless voice.

I shut my eyes tightly. The world really is quite bright.

The voice, however, does not give up. "Come on, get up, _ma p'tite Îlienne_. You wouldn't want to miss your own wedding day, would you?"

That does wake me. With a jolt I sit up and am confronted by Colette's smirking face. "Are you awake now?" she asks, sounding rather pleased with herself.

For a moment, I just blink at her confusedly. "Where did _you_ come from?" I want to know. There's too much happening for my poor mind, still half asleep as it is.

"Saint Cloud, of course," answers Colette in a tone that leaves no doubt as to how foolish she considers my question to be.

She inclines her head slightly, adding, "I am a surprise."

"That you are indeed," I confirm, still slightly flabbergasted at her sudden appearance.

Colette smiles widely. "At your service!" she announces, giving a mock salute.

I just want to ask how she knew to come here today of all days, when there's a knock on the door. "Come in!" Colette calls out before I can point out to her that, strictly speaking, this is _my_ room.

The door opens and Walter peers inside. "May I?" he asks.

Once more, it is Colette waving him in. He follows her invitation, but catches my eye while he does so. His own eyes twinkle amusedly.

Colette, meanwhile, has turned back to me. "Alright, let's get you ready. Where's your dress?" she enquires. She takes in the room curiously, but after a moment or two, turns back to me abruptly. With narrowed eyes, she adds, "Please don't tell me you plan to marry in _uniform_!" Her expression leaves little doubt as to what she thinks of this particular idea.

I can hear Walter laughing softly and have to bite back a smile myself. Shaking my head slightly, I remark drily, "As if Persis would have allowed that…

It might easily be down to the influence of Di and Mildred, but it's still a mark of confusion to me why Ken is allowed to wear uniform but I am not. The dress uniform is really very pretty after all, and besides, I'm proud to be wearing it! But Persis didn't deign to discuss the matter with me, instead dragging me into Le Touquet to shop for a new dress. How she managed to get a half-day off for that is still a mystery to me though, because while I spent my last two weeks in Étaples helping pack up a hospital unit already voided of patients, Persis was busy caring for an increasing number of flu cases all throughout June. But Persis had apparently made up her mind to go dress shopping with me, seeing as she is being prevented from attending the wedding proper, and what Persis wants, she usually wills into reality.

One advantage of that shopping trip was that it enabled me to replace some of my belongings lost in that bombing raid, which I had increasingly started to miss. When it came to _the dress_ , Persis and I had differing opinions, however. Had it been up to her, I would be married in a confection of white lace, and had it been up to me, I would just wear my dress uniform.

Our compromise is currently being surveyed critically by Colette. It is a calf-length, dark green day dress, simply but skilfully cut, with a sash to emphasize the waist. Worn with it is a fashionably close-fitting hat with a small upturned brim, dyed in the darkest of violets. It's practical enough not be become utterly useless after today, but so elegant that not even Persis could deny it (though she did term it 'too dark' for a June wedding).

"Pretty," Colette now decides as well, "Very French. But don't worry – I won't tell Dr MacIver!" She smiles mischievously and I have to laugh at the thought of what the good doctor would have to say to me wearing a _very French_ wedding dress.

"Persis is your new sister-in-law, yes?" Colette verifies as she takes hold of the dress. "Is she nice?"

"She is… certainly unique. But yes, I like her," I reply.

Colette nods. "Do I like her as well?" she wants to know.

For a moment, she's got me stumped for an answer, so I cast a helpless look at Walter who has settled down in an armchair by the window. He, however, just smiles, good-naturedly and not helpfully at all.

"Well…" I try anyway, "I think that you two would either scratch each other's eyes out after less than an hour, or form an unholy alliance we'd all come to regret."

Colette thinks my words over for several seconds, her head cocked to one side. "I like her," she then declares in her inimitable way. Walter laughs and I shake my head, smiling. They might resemble each other a little, but in her own way, Colette is no less unique than Persis is.

They're certainly both equally bossy, for if I had held some vague hope of being allowed to lounge about in this decadent four-poster bed for a while longer yet, Colette has it quickly dashed. With an energy that I find quite baffling this early in the morning, she shoos me out of bed and shuffles me behind a finely decorated screen to help me get dressed (as if I couldn't do it on my own).

"How come are you here, anyway? Did Kenneth…?" I ask while she whirls around me.

"He wrote to me," Colette explains easily, holding the dress out for me to step inside. "He thought you might like to have a friend here with you, which is really quite considerate of him. Not that I'm hard to find, seeing as I'm still stuck in that horrible Saint Cloud, but it's sweet of him to make the effort anyway. I'd keep him, if I were you."

"That's the plan," I reply with a smile.

Colette nods, then disappears behind my back to tackle the buttons. "Right. Which is why we're here in the first place," she says. "Not that that was easily arranged on my part. Our new matron has accomplished the feat of being even more awful than the last one and absolutely refused me a day off. Dr MacIver intervened in the end though, and here I am!"

"How _is_ Dr MacIver?" I enquire. Thinking about the headstrong, brilliant man makes me instinctively smile wider.

"Fine, fine," answers Colette. "He's as dotty as ever, but he remembers you fondly and has tasked me with relaying his best wishes. He does hope, however, that you – and I quote – won't decide to restrict yourself to being a useless housewife for the rest of your life. I did point out to him that the army doesn't really leave you any chance in the matter but I don't think he was convinced. He just made that disapproving sound of his and shook his head all sorrowful. I think he was sorry that he couldn't blame the French."

She reaches for my shoulders and turns me around slowly, so she can survey me from all sides. Apparently satisfied with her work, she directs me towards the vanity and pushes me down into the chair in front of it.

"I do agree with him in principle though," she informs me. "It is a right shame that you aren't allowed to continue working after your wedding. Did you run into any trouble when resigning, by the way?"

While she speaks, she brushes my hair with forceful strokes and, for a moment, is distracted enough by her work that I have some hope of getting away with it. But as distracted as Colette might be, Walter obviously isn't. _He_ doesn't miss my sudden silence. He never did miss much.

"Rilla?" he asks.

I swallow, avert my eyes from his. The question hangs between us and now Colette's movements start slowing down as well. Quizzically, she looks at me in the mirror.

"It might theoretically be possible that, strictly speaking, I haven't resigned yet, in the traditional sense of the word," I admit reluctantly when I realize that they won't let me off the hook.

Colette frowns. "Why not?" she asks. She takes up her work of brushing my hair again, but with less verve than before. In the mirror, her gaze keeps hold of mine.

I let go of a breath of air, feeling frustrated. "I just figured I'd wait until the time had really come. After all, so much can happen yet…" I answer, looking down at my interwoven hands.

From his seat next to the window, Walter makes a thoughtful sound. "And this has nothing to do with you not _really_ wanting to resign?"

Oh, a plague on both him and his perceptiveness! Why is there no hiding anything from him?

" _Of course_ I don't want to resign. But not marrying Ken isn't an option, so I have to," I answer, pressing my lips together.

For several seconds, Walter remains silent. When I look over at him quickly, he looks pensive. "But you knew this from the start, didn't you?" he finally asks.

"I did," I reply hesitatingly. "I didn't like it even then but I had almost… well, not _agreed_ with the need to resign, but maybe come around to it. It's only…" I break off.

"Only?" Walter gently prompts.

Knitting my eyebrows together, I search for the right words. "Somehow… I don't know, but when we had those air raids in May… and then, when I received word of Betty's death… it became, well, _personal_ after that." I sigh. I don't have the feeling I'm doing a good job of explaining it.

Walter, wonderful Walter, seems to have understood anyhow. "It's different, isn't it? When you're standing down there yourself," he asks quietly.

" _So_ different!" I confirm fiercely. "Every time I think about the _Boche_ bombing hospitals and killing my fellow nursing sisters, my _friends_ … every time, I wonder how I could possibly turn my back on them, just to gain my own happiness."

"You happiness is precious," Walter points out carefully.

Colette, for her part, remains uncharacteristically silent. That she is listening very intently, however, I know from the fact that she has been brushing the same strand of hair for at least a minute now.

"That doesn't change anything about how selfish it is to put my own happiness above everything else," I persist. "Even though it's probably also quite selfish how often I have already cursed the CAMC for that stupid rule. The English nurses are allowed to marry, after all!"

"Couldn't you sign up with them instead? With the RAMC?" Colette, ever practical, suggests.

I shake my head. "The RAMC might be more lenient when it comes to marriage, but they're stricter about age. You need to be 25 to sign up with them as a nurse, and I'll only be 23 next month," I explain. "I could, admittedly, volunteer as a VAD. They have a minimum age of 21 and allow service in France from age 23 onward, but for one, I'm perfectly over-qualified for that kind of work and for another… I suppose I'm too much of a colonist for it…"

A frown registers on Colette's face, as she tugs at a stubborn strand of her. "Explain!" she demands.

"Well, Persis told me a bit about how the hierarchy in those English hospitals works. There's the matron and her assistant, same as we have them. It's below that, that things get complicated. You have nursing sisters who are responsible for whole areas of a hospital and, one step lower, nursing sisters who have responsibility for a specific ward. Then there are staff nurses, also properly trained nurses, but of lower rank than the nursing sisters. Promotion is possible and down to length of service and quality of work. Below the staff nurses, we have the junior nurses or probationers, who only had two years of training as a rule. Often, they were children's or fever nurses in civilian life. And _then_ you have VADs and other volunteers with their training of only a few weeks or months." I count them off on my fingers.

Colette has stopped brushing during my speech. Incredulously, she blinks at me in the mirror. "Are you serious?" she asks, aghast.

I shrug. "Pretty complicated, isn't it? And if you compare it to our hospitals, where there's a matron and sometimes an assistant matron and all other nurses are of the same rank… that's what I meant about being too much of a colonist. That kind of hierarchical thinking just isn't given to us Canadians, I think."

"Typical English," Colette murmurs with a shake of her head, before she turns back to my hair again.

"Indeed. If only the Canadians weren't so narrow-minded on the question of married nurses!" I give a frustrated sigh. "I mean, I'm really not bad at what I do and I'm feeling fine and there's really no reason why I shouldn't be doing my work. But now they want me to stop just because I'm going to change my name? It's not like Ken and I can live like husband and wife for the foreseeable future, after all! When I think about it… it just seems so _useless_ to give up my work just because of that."

"Then don't do it," Walter, who has been suspiciously quiet for the past few minutes, suggests without a moment of hesitation.

Colette stops brushing very suddenly. I turn my head slowly. With no small amount of incredulity, I eye Walter. He is just sitting in his armchair, the picture of casualness, and meets my gaze openly.

"You're not listening to me. Not marrying Ken is not an option," I inform him.

Walter nods. "I heard you very well. I was talking about your work," he clarifies.

I turn a little in my chair, the better to look at him. Does he mean what I _think_ he means?"

"But that's not possible," Colette points out. "The army forbids it."

Walter smiles meaningfully. "Well, what the army doesn't know…" He raises an eyebrow.

So he does mean what I think he means.

Thoughtfully, I consider him.

"You want her to _lie_?" Colette asks, evidently fascinated by the very thought.

Walter raises his shoulders. Then he nods.

"It's there a commandment prohibiting that?" I ask sharply. This is his field of expertise, after all.

"There is. The eight commandment," Colette confirms eagerly.

Walter nods. "The eight or the ninth, depending on how you count. There's no consensus on the counting of the commandments among the different denominations."

Field of expertise. As I said.

"In any case, it prohibits us from lying," I once more draw attention back toward the crucial point in this discussion.

Slowly, Walter inclines his head first to one side, then to the other. Somehow, I can't shake the feeling that he's enjoying this. "Strictly speaking, it forbids us from _bearing false witness_ ," he corrects.

So?

In the mirror, I exchange a look with Colette. It makes me feel relieved that she looks as clueless as I feel.

"In the understanding of Jewish scholars of old, 'bearing false witness' means giving false testimony, for example in a court of law. A simple lie, especially a so called _white lie_ doesn't necessarily fall under the same definition. There certainly were several scholars who were of the opinion that such lies were permitted under certain circumstances. Now, the Catholic Church admittedly takes a less, well, _flexible_ stance in the matter, but I always considered the old Jewish understanding to have a certain charm. In any case, one shouldn't ignore that, in full, the commandment talks about 'bearing false witness against thy neighbour'. It does therefore – and this is true for the Christian understanding as well – primarily concerns itself with falsehoods that are told to harm a fellow human," Walter patiently explains.

I close my eyes tightly for a moment. This is much too much theology this early in the morning.

Colette, more well versed in the finer points of religion than I am, is quicker to grasp Walter's meaning. "And Rilla doesn't harm anyone by continuing her work as a nurse. It's the other way round, actually. She's _helping_!" she exclaims, sounding rather enthusiastic.

Walter smiles. "That's how I would see it as well," he confirms.

In the mirror, Colette searches my gaze once more. Her own eyes are shining. "There you have it!" she announces. "You can only win this one. Because if you are sent to hell for lying later on, you can just tell them that a priest said it was alright!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I risk a quick glance at Walter. He has already opened his mouth, but closes it slowly and swallows hard. How it must pain him to let Colette's, well, _unorthodox_ view of Heaven and Hell stand like that, I can only guess. I have to give him credit for doing it regardless.

I, on the other hand, am forced to dampen her excitement. "Before we talk about hell's gates, there's a much more earthly power that is liable to take offence at such a lie," I point out to her.

Colette pouts. "The army," she replies grudgingly.

"What would happen if they found out?" Walter asks from his armchair.

I look over to him, frowning. I haven't really thought about the actual consequences of it, to be honest. "Well…" I start slowly. "There's a rule that nurses marrying without permission lose their place in the army, won't have their return fare paid and are not allowed to collect a pension."

Walter nods pensively. Colette, however, perks up once more. "That rules only applies to nurses leaving the CAMC to marry within the first year of their arrival in Europe," she reports. "You have been here for two years already, so it doesn't apply to you."

"And even if it did – wouldn't that be a risk worth taking? Those sanctions don't seem to be too severe to me," Walter adds.

Shaking my head, I look from one to the other. "How does it come that the two of you are so set on getting me to break the rules?" I enquire, not altogether sure whether to be amused or irritated. After all, it's still not quite clear who put those two in charge of the matter.

Colette, however, is never at a loss for an answer. "Because we love you and it would make you unhappy to give up your work," she answers simply. "I mean, what are you even supposed to do? Sit around in England and just _wait_ for the war to end? That's enough to make anyone go crazy!"

Immediately, my thoughts turn to Polly, who is doing just that. She hasn't seen her husband in months and the loss of Betty has deprived her letters of the last bit of hope they still held beforehand. She has unmistakably advised me against doing as she did and leaving the CAMC. She is, admittedly, both grieving and blaming herself, because it was her idea that she and Betty sign up with the army, but still… Polly must know, right?

I sigh quietly, push the though far away from me. It makes me sad to be reminded of Betty and Polly and today, of all days, I don't want to be sad.

"One could almost come to the conclusion that you've given the matter rather a lot of thought yourself?" I ask Colette, raising both eyebrows,

Colette scoffs. The hairpin she is in the process of fixing pokes into my scalp for a moment and I am not entirely convinced she didn't do it on purpose. "Not all of us can catch a rich officer for ourselves," she informs me haughtily. "I mean no more inclined to give up my work than you are, so we'd need to get married in secret as well. Maurice, as a lowly private, needs his superior officer's permission to get married, and I don't quite know what sanctions would await him of he married without that permission. Besides, when a marriage has not been permitted by the army, no separation allowance is paid, nor can the wife collect a pension in the event of her husband's death. You don't need it anyway, but _I_ 'd be stuck in England as a destitute widow, if worst came to worst."

She makes an obvious effort to sound composed, but it's as obvious that this weighs on her. Instinctively, I reach back, squeeze her hand. "How is Maurice doing?" I ask.

"Not too bad, all things considered. He was posted back to a CCS a while ago, so he's at least not as close to the front as he used to be, even if the frontline seems to be chasing him down…" she answers, shaking her head miserably.

There's not much to reply to _that_ , so I fall silent. In the mirror, I watch Colette pin the last hair pins into place before taking a step back. "Finished!" she announces and I can hear how she makes an effort to sound cheerful.

I smile at her reflection in the mirror, then lean forward to survey my hairdo more closely. It feels a bit strange, if I'm being honest. For two years, I never went anywhere without my veil, and it has been even longer that I wore a hairdo as elaborate as the one Colette has just conjured up. I raise a hand, cautiously touch a strand of hair. I am vaguely aware of there being a knock on the door and Colette calling out for someone to come on, but as that can only be Diane or her housemaid, coming to collect us for breakfast, I don't turn around.

"Oh," Colette says in that very moment, "so you're the goddamn Kenneth Ford?"

Abruptly, I turn.

And yes – it _is_ Ken.

For a moment, I just look at him, standing there in the doorway, and drink in the sight of him. He looks well, maybe better than I've ever seen him. Calmer, more relaxed and, curiously, _taller_ than I remember him to be. There's a small smile playing on his lips and a light in his eyes. His gaze is firmly fixed on me.

Almost without being conscious of doing to, I get up from my chair and walk towards him, never once breaking eye contact. My heart is beating in my throat. Our hands meet first, then his arms close around me. And if I was nervous before, about seeing him again after so many months, I am now feeling very calm. We are still _we_.

Ken raises a hand and strokes my cheek, the gentlest of touches. Then he kisses me and I suppose I _should_ care about the fact that we aren't alone but…in all honesty, I don't care at all. Right in this moment, he might as well be the only person in the world.

Moments pass – I couldn't say how many – until Ken leans back a little, but only far enough so he can touch his forehead to my own. He seems as unwilling to let me out of his sight as I am with him. We haven't spoken yet – not with words, anyhow – but I can see the tenderness in his eyes slowly give way to mischievousness.

"Since when have I been damned?" he asks.

I smile at the thought of how he has accrued that particular nickname. "Why? Do you care?" I reply teasingly.

"Hm…" makes Ken thoughtfully, "Depends…." He obviously tries to appear serious, but his eyes are smiling. One hand follows the contours of my face.

"Does it, then? On what, if I may ask?" I want to know. My arms have wound themselves around his neck a while ago, though I was not conscious of them doing so, and my fingers weave into his hair.

"Could it prevent you from marrying me?" he asks back, not missing a beat.

"Never," I answer without any doubt.

Ken nods, smiles. "In that case," he declares resolutely, "It is of no interest to me. Hell can't be so bad if you're there with me."

Then he kisses me once more and I find myself wondering if Walter wasn't right, after all. If, instead of Hell, there isn't some paradise somewhere, just for the two of us. And if there isn't – if Hell is truly what await us – I know with absolute certainty that I will face every last circle of Hell, as long as _he_ is there to face them with me.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It's a long way to Tipperary' from 1912 (lyrics and music by Jack Judge)._


	49. Light my life till life is done

_June 21_ _st_ _, 1918  
Paris, France_

 **Light my life till life is done**

The bath water sways against the side of the tub in gentle waves as I stretch out within it. Satisfied, I let my gaze survey Diane's opulent bathroom and observe, not for the first time, that, as awe-inspiring as she was during out first meeting, it was really very nice of her to not only take all of us in without any complaint, but enable me to have a long, hot bath for the second day in a row. I don't think I've had that since I left Ingleside.

Diane has also been very helpful in many other ways as well. She and Ken made sure that all documents and permits were in order, which I don't know anything about anyway, and it fell to Diane to organize the rest of the day as well. A bit curious, maybe, but she claims to have enjoyed doing it. And then, in the evening, after a scrumptious dinner and after Colette and Walter had left, she announced her intention to spend the night at the place of 'a very dear, old friend' and thus, gave us the run of her flat.

I slide down a little in the tub and blow at some bubbles that have settled on my upper lip. Then I close my eyes and recall my memories of the day. My _wedding day_.

The Scots Kirk, where we gave each other our promises, is the only Presbyterian church in Paris, maybe in all of France. It's a pretty church, if mostly unremarkable, squeezed in between two houses in the Rue Bayard. The minister is a kind man and, despite an audience of only five, he took much effort with the ceremony, so that, despite the somewhat unusual circumstances, I still feel properly married and for that, I am grateful.

It was a very simple wedding, I guess. Certainly, when compared to Nan's big party and even in comparison to Jem and Faith's. much smaller celebration. Nan, especially, would probably be quite shocked at me refusing the traditional walk down the center aisle as well. But it would have been foolish in a near empty church and besides… it felt _right_ , for Ken and me to stand up there with the minister together, as equals.

A smile creeps onto my face as I remember Walter and his answer to the minister's question if he was the one to give me away. He had only looked at me, very thoughtfully, and answered, "I don't think I have the right to do it. Only Rilla alone has it. She belongs to no one but herself and somehow, I don't think today will change anything about that."

And he is right, isn't he? I don't belong to anyone. The past two years, I think, have seen to that. I belong only to myself and now I have made the decision to be _with_ Kenneth as well. The linguistic distinction might be a small one, and yet it means such a lot. Walter understand it, I understand it and I know that Ken understands it as well. It's one of the reasons I married him for.

Still, it robbed our already unconventional wedding of another traditional detail and I'm quite sure that my traditional older sister would not approve. Though… maybe it's the _old_ Nan who wouldn't approve. It's been so long since I last saw her that I sometimes forget that she isn't the same anymore either. This war hasn't hurt anyone the way it hurt her and even if she seems to be making some progress in recent weeks, she will never be the woman she was in 1914. Maybe, with everything she has suffered through, she would understand after all.

The bath water is starting to feel cool on my skin and it is with slight regret that I climb out of the tub. As I reach for one of Diane's feathery towels, the regrets gives way to a new feeling though. A diffuse kind of nervousness. This night isn't over yet, is it? Even I know that.

I slip into my cottony nightdress and then put on my dressing gown. The clothes are new, bought only weeks ago, but they still look almost shabby in Diane's decadent flat. She has given me free reign of her wardrobe, and I suppose it will shock Persis to hear that I politely refused. But tonight, more than ever, I want to feel like myself.

Barefooted, I walk through the dark, silent apartment. I find Ken in my – _our_ – bedroom. He sits in the armchair next to the window, a book on his lap. As he hears me, he looks up and I feel an unfamiliar flutter within me at his smile.

"Did you enjoy your bath?" he asks, setting down the book next to him and stretching out a hand towards me.

"It was heavenly. But I'm afraid I lost track of time," I apologise, a little ruefully, as I walk over to him.

Ken waves my concern aside. "Doesn't matter. Besides, I know all about how nice it feels to be properly clean again." He grins boyishly, wiggling his eyebrows. When I move to swat at him in reply, he catches my hand mid-air and instead uses it to pull me down on his lap.

It is down to certain rules that have been drilled into me for 23 years that my first impulse is to get up immediately. I fight it down and remain seated, if stiffly. However, I can't quite prevent a quick, nervous peek over my shoulder.

Ken – thrice damned may he be – doesn't miss it. "We are _married_ , my darling," he informs me, sounding decidedly self-satisfied. "I assure you that this is entirely proper, not to say quite expedient."

Ignoring my glare, he slides one hand around the back of my neck, pulls me closer and kisses me firmly. It does, I have to admit, help quite a bit in loosening my tension. I have to agree with him on one account at least – it doesn't feel improper.

Still, I have to assert myself in this, if only a little bit, don't I? "I am perfectly aware of our marital status. I was merely worried about your injury," I therefore explain, trying to make my voice sound as haughty as possible, though the effect of it is somewhat spoilt by how breathless his kiss has left me.

"Of course you were," Ken answers, but his expression leaves little doubt that he doesn't believe a word of what I say.

Generously, I let the comment slide anyway, which is partly down to the fact the he is, indeed, right, and partly because I didn't discard my vocation along with my veil. The nurse in me has been impatient to find out about the state of his injury for the entire day. I just move to enquire after it, when Ken beats me to it.

"The leg is fine," he remarks and I _think_ I hear a sliver of annoyance in his voice.

This, too, I ignore studiously. "Why are you still limping then?" I demand to know instead. He does a good job of covering it up, but I didn't miss the slight limp in this step.

Ken doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he considers me for several seconds. His expression sways between being amused and irritated, but the amusement seems to win out, for a smile spreads over his face as he announces, "I see… you're alluding to the fact that you never got your wedding dance, aren't you? But no worries, we can still rectify that."

Puzzled, I look at him. _Wedding dance_?

Ken gives me no opportunity for a reply. In one fluid motion, and without any warning, he is on his feet, pulling me up alongside him. Then he whirls both of us through the room with such vigour that I, taken by surprise as I am, would likely have flopped to the floor in a less than elegant fashion, had his arms not kept me upright. And as if that wasn't quite enough on its own, he bends me backwards a little and steals yet another kiss.

"You're trying to distract me!" I realize, once I'm upright again.

Ken smirks. "Is it working?" he wants to know.

Err… yes?

"Not at all!" I answer with all the conviction I can muster.

He just laughs.

But if I'm being honest, I couldn't really mind even if I wanted to. There's something about him, a lightness, I haven't seen before. He seems to be truly _happy_ and the knowledge that I contributed to that happiness makes my heart beat faster.

With one or two turns, Ken has manoeuvred both of us to the end of the room. He sits down without relinquishing his hold on me and this time, I allow him to pull me down on his lap more readily. And that's despite the effort I have to put into ignoring the fact that we're not sitting in the armchair anymore but on the decadent four-poster bed I already slept in last night.

"So – your leg?" I ask, in part so I won't have to acknowledge the bed.

"You're persistent," Ken remarks amusedly, but he then he relents, "You don't have to worry about me. The leg doesn't hurt anymore, except for when I put real strain on it by walking for a long time. I'm not limping because it hurts but because that's just the way it _is._ The doctors said it may just stay that way."

I nod slowly. "Because of the muscle they pulled," I murmur. "The surrounding smaller muscles take over a lot of the work, but they can't always replace it fully."

"That's what the doctors said", confirms Ken, "And that's why you're stuck with a lame husband now." He says it casually, but I frown at him regardless.

"You know I don't mind, don't you? I would have married you even if they had taken the leg off," I assert.

Now Ken, too, grows serious. He raises a hand, brushes a still-wet strand of hair out of my face. "I know. But I wouldn't have married you," he replies and I don't doubt that this is the truth. Had they amputated the leg, he would only have seen the burden – a burden he wouldn't have allowed anyone to carry with him, not even me.

I reach for his hand, turn my head slightly and press a kiss into the palm of his hand. "Well, you won't get rid of me as easily now," I whisper.

"And you have no idea how happy that makes me," Ken murmurs in answer. He pulls my head down against his shoulder, weaving his fingers into my hair. My eyes close quite of their own accord and for several minutes, we stay that way, motionless, lost in one another.

"Are you mad if I say that I had hoped they'd keep you in England a while longer yet?" I ask after a long while, without opening my eyes or really moving at all.

Ken props his chin on my head and sighs. "How could I be? The past months have taught me how hard it is to worry and wait, after all. If I think back on those air raids…" he answers and for a second, I think I hear bitterness in his voice.

Then, almost as quickly, it is gone when he adds, "I actually suspect that, had matters been different, I wouldn't even be here yet. But after the losses of the spring, they need every pair of hands they can get, which has made the doctors more accommodating than they otherwise might have been. But I wouldn't have been able to bear being stuck in England much longer – and when they offered me the chance to take over my old battalion…" He lets the sentence hang.

I open my eyes, raise my head to look at him. "They promoted you, didn't they?" I ask. I already did notice that the single crown on his shoulder has been joined by a star – or 'pip', as they call them. _Lieutenant Colonel Ford_. It sounds awfully serious.

"They did," confirms Ken. "They put me in charge of my old battalion. The old CO was pulled back for duty at headquarters some weeks ago and I guess I am the natural replacement. I was his second-in-command last year, but as they replaced me when I was wounded, that position isn't open for me to take back anymore. For a long time, it looked as if I might have to switch units, which would have been alright as well, only… I always preferred the thought of going back to my old battalion and suddenly, I got the chance to do it."

I hum thoughtfully. "But won't the new second-in-command mind that they made you commander now? He could have expected to be promoted himself, right?"

A shake of his head, before Ken explains, "No one cares what he thinks about it. The sensitivities of the individual do not concern the army. In principle, you're right, though. It could easily have raised some discontent. Luckily for me, however, the second-in-command is none other than Matt Irving. We've known each other since the Toronto days from before the war. I wrote to him and it's alright with him – or that's what he claims, at any rate."

I nod. This isn't the first time I've heard of Matt Irving. From what Ken told me about him, they are something akin to friends.

"And apart from that? How does it feel to be CO, all of a sudden?" I enquire. Because, truth to be told, the mere thought of having to take on responsibility for several hundred human lives is enough to make me shudder.

Ken, on the other hand, just shrugs, clearly unfazed. "I already substituted for the CO last year, so I know what the job entails. First and foremost, I'm glad to be allowed back with my men. I got through a lot with them. Though that's also the reason why I will try and prevent another promotion if at all possible."

"Why's that?" I ask, cocking my head to the side.

"Lieutenant colonel is the highest position on battalion level. Then it's brigade and division and so on. The higher one climbs, the further removed one is from the men. You lose sight of what's important to them, of their needs," Ken answers. "And I can't imagine anything more horrible that sitting somewhere in a safe headquarter, miles behind the lines, and pushing tin soldiers around on a map, while up front, real men die."

He raises his eyes, looks at me directly. "I just think that if I order them to give their lives, it's a matter of courtesy that I am right there next to them," he adds. He says it calmly, but my heart clenches fearfully at his words.

Two weeks. Two weeks until I will have to let him go. And though I am happy beyond words about our marriage, it has changed something. The stakes are higher now. So, accordingly, is the possible loss.

Ken must have noticed my concern, for he smiles soothingly. "Don't worry. I'll take care. After all, I have something worth returning to now," he promises, gently kissing my forehead.

And as happy it makes me to hear him say it, the words do little to alleviate my concern. That he has no control over his fate, I know very well. I sigh silently, huddle closer to him, dropping my head back on his shoulder.

Lazily, Ken's hand moves in circles on my back. Some moments pass in silence, before he speaks once more, "We still have to decide where you'll stay for the foreseeable future. Diane won't mind you staying with her for a while, but in view of how close the front is to Paris by now, England might be the safer alternative in the long run. Maybe somewhere in the south, close to Jem? Or can I even convince you to go back to Canada?" There's a well-controlled hope sounding from his voice.

My stomach, on the other hand, clenches violently. I swallow hard.

The sudden tension in my body does not escape Ken's notice, for I can feel him sit up straighter. "Rilla?" he asks, voice alert, maybe even wary.

I take a deep breath, then lean back slightly so I can look at him. "About that…" I start slowly, "Well… in truth, I'd like to continue working. For the CAMC."

There. Now I've said it.

Cautiously, even a little fearfully, I regard Ken. For the first few seconds, he sits completely still. Then he abruptly turns away, shutting his eyes tightly, pressing a fist against his forehead. His jaw is set.

"Ken?" I ask softly, so softly I'm not even sure he can hear me. I think about getting up, but when I move, his arm closes tighter around me, holding me there.

"Give me a moment," he asks without looking at me or even raising his head. His voice is strained.

So I remain seated, feeling helpless. I raise a hand to touch him then lower it again. I have no idea what to do.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Ken lets go of a breath of air and turns to look at me again. I can see how desperately he's trying to keep his face bare of any emotions, but there's something tortured in his eyes that he can't suppress. The realization that I put it there is like a slap.

"Do you know that I had nightmares about this moment?" he asks. He tries for a smile, probably to lighten the situation, but fails miserably.

"You mean…?" I break off, let the question hang between us.

"I mean the moment when you tell me that you're going back," Ken clarifies. His voice his calm now and the tension, too, leaves his body. What's left is a feeling of resignation that hurts as much.

"But… but I only decided it this morning. How, then…? I mean, I didn't know myself until a few hours ago," I argue helplessly. Quite as if this could change anything.

Ken takes a moment. He reaches out and gently touches the furrow between my brows with one fingertip. Only after my forehead is smooth once more, does he answer, "But I knew it. Part of me always knew, from the moment you told me about your plan back in London."

Immediately, the furrow is back. "I meant it. I meant what I said in London. I really planned on doing it just like that," I state. "It's just… so much has happened since then and…"

Gently, Ken lays a finger against my lips, silencing me. "I know you meant it," he assures. "And you don't have to explain yourself. I understand. I may hate it, but that doesn't mean I don't understand."

"I'm sorry for making you worry," I whisper, lowering my gaze. Because I am. It hurts to know I am causing him pain.

Ken shakes his head slightly. "I took that risk," he answers calmly, "And I suppose that the part of you that is making you go back is one of the parts that I love the most. And that's why I will live with you going back to Étaples, even though the selfish part of me would prefer to have you all the way in Canada."

I raise my head, consider him thoughtfully. "Maybe the selfish part of you will even get its way – at least partly," I reply.

Ken raises an eyebrow quizzically. A glimmer of hope alights in his eyes until he has it back under control again.

"I won't go back to Étaples," I continue. "When I spoke to Miss Talbot, our matron, to tell her about my planned resignation – which I didn't go through with in the end – she informed me that I am to be transferred after my leave. To one of the hospital ships, ferrying convalescent patients over to Canada."

Ken grimaces. "U-Boats," he murmurs, voice pained. "First bombs and now U-boats. Of all things!"

He's right, of course. When the Germans declared their unrestricted submarine warfare last year, it brought the U.S. into this war, but also the sinking of an unknown number of merchant ships. War ships were never safe even before that, and while an attack on a hospital ship is regarded as a war crime, even they are susceptible to the danger the U-Boats pose. This year alone, the _Rewa_ was sunk, as was the _Glennart Castle_ , with few survivors.

"Work on a hospital ship is regarded as one of the easiest jobs you can get," I try to comfort him anyway. "It's meant for those that need a bit of a break, which is probably true for me. I have been very… _tired_ , recently. And besides, we're likely to land in Halifax and we can expect to stay there a day or two before it's back to England. With a little bit of planning, I should be able to see my family again!" At the thought, my heart clenches painfully. I hadn't realized quite how terribly I miss home until the chance to see it again became a very real possibility.

Slowly, Ken lets go of a breath. "And no one is happier about that than I am. 'Tired' only begins to describe it, if you ask me. Persis says so as well. But still, I would like that plan much better if it didn't involve any German U-boats."

I raise my shoulders, a little helplessly. "Yes, the U-boats exist," I admit. "But attacks on hospital ships are seldom. There are certain rules even the Germans adhere to."

But we both know that not to be true. The red crosses couldn't save our hospitals from falling bombs, and they won't protect the hospitals ships from torpedoes either. Not to mention the sea mines that blow up everything coming near them, blind to anything else.

I can see that Ken is having much the same thought. But then he only closes his eyes, shaking his head slightly. When his eyes open once more, he is composed. "Two weeks," he remarks calmly. "Two weeks that might have to sustain us for a very long time."

I nod slowly. My heart suddenly beats faster. "Then we'd better make them count," I murmur.

Ken's eyes are suddenly very intense. Then he leans forward and kisses me, slowly and meaningfully, and all of a sudden, the air tastes different. Sweet and heavy. Like a promise.

"Are you nervous?" Ken asks softly after having drawn back a little.

I'm not. I thought I would be, maybe I even _should_ be, but instead, I am very calm. For a long moment, I just look at him. I don't know if I've ever been this sure about anything.

"No. I'm not nervous," I answer, my voice barely above a whisper. "Remember how you once told me that you trusted me? Well – now I am trusting you."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The sunshine of your smile' from 1913 (lyrics by Leonard Cooke, music by Lilian Ray)._


	50. In life's garden fair

_June 23rd, 1918  
Brittany, France_

 **In life's garden fair**

Tilting my head back, I breathe in the raw, salty air.

"God, how I've missed the sea," I murmur.

"Isn't Étaples is close to the sea, though?" Ken points out, voice questioning.

Unwillingly, I open and eye to peer at him. "But a different sea," I explain, even though that should really be obvious.

"It's still the Atlantic both times, isn't it?" he retorts, frowning.

I sigh heavily. Sometimes, he's such a _city boy_.

"In theory, yes," I answer. "And the Opal Coast is really very pretty and all that, but the sea there is so awfully... _calm_. Not like the sea should be. This here, on the other hand, is a _sea_." I gesticulate at the waves, crashing in a continuous roar against the rocky shore that we are strolling along, hands clasped tightly.

Ken looks from me to the sea and back again. Then his brow clears and he smiles. "You mean to say that the sea here is much more like how you remember it from home?" he clarifies.

I nod, if a little reluctantly. He is right, I suppose. I can feel wind in my hair and sea spray on my face and salt on my lips and it feels _right_. I have, in truth, not felt as close to my island in months. And the girl of times past, too, feels much closer to me right now than she has been for a long time.

 _Land by the Sea_. A more fitting name there could probably never be for this place. Now that I am finally here, I only regret not coming much sooner.

"It was a good idea to come here," Ken remarks, as if reading my thoughts. Maybe he has.

"Wasn't it?" I respond, feeling a little smug. "And to think that you didn't want to, initially!"

Because, for all he tried to hide wariness when, on the morning after our wedding, I told him I wanted to spend the next two weeks here in Brittany, he was less than convinced by the plan. But I left it up to him – and Diane, I suppose – to organize the entire wedding, so I figured it would just be fair if I got to organize this. And besides, he wouldn't have denied me this wish, not _really_.

"I was… surprised at your suggestion. But I did see how important this is to you," Ken confirms my unspoken assumption at once.

He's right, anyway. This is truly important to me.

Paris, despite holding a magic of the sort no other city can match, is simply far too _close_. Military vehicles, soldiers, veterans, bombing damage – the whole city breathes war. The thought of spending my already too short honeymoon there made me feel uneasy. Because I wanted nothing more than to forget about this war, for a few, precious days.

When Gallou's monthly letter arrived at Étaples, as always written in the round, girly hand of his daughter Nolwenn, I wrote back on impulse, asking if his invitation to _Breizh_ still stood. Judging from his quick reply, he was mostly put out at me ever doubting that. And that's how we came to be here now.

"And you're definitely sure that that former patient of yours doesn't mind having us here?" Ken asks right in that moment.

I nod decidedly. "Absolutely," I confirm. "More than that, even. I think he never would have forgiven me if I hadn't come at some point. I promised, after all, and one has to keep one's promises."

"Well, I'm not arguing with that," Ken replies with a mischievous smile, raising our intertwined hands and pressing a kiss on my fingertips. He is talking, naturally, about the age-old promise we gave each other just two short days ago.

"And as you see, I am in the habit of keeping my promises," I retort, giving him a quick grin before looking down at my hand. On my fourth finger, my Claddagh ring gleams, much to my satisfaction. The day when it be back on its chain, hidden under my uniform, will come soon enough, after all.

It still feels strange, to be out of that uniform. Ken is still wearing his, because he would run into trouble if dressed in civilian clothes. For me, it's the other way round – a nurse running around with an officer would certainly raise eyebrows. And so, I left _Sister Blythe_ in Paris at Diane's, where she is officially spending the next two weeks anyway. Here, meanwhile, I am just _Mrs Kenneth Ford_ and I have to say – it doesn't sound half bad.

My _husband_ has just released my hand from his, but only to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me closer. We've stopped walking, so I lean my head against his chest, looking out at the sea's wild play. Under the slight coarseness of his uniform I can feel the beat of his heart, strong and steady.

My heart is a fickle thing. It hurtles and jumps, sputters and hops. On the other hand, it is very difficult to get Ken's heart to beat out of time. I already noticed a while ago how calming it is to listen to its steady drum. Far newer is the realization that I also like those moments when it's not beating as calmly.

"I'm already looking forward to meeting your Gallou," Ken remarks after a short while. "I know he's important to you. Whenever you talk of him, you're smiling."

"Really?" I crane my neck to look at him. I hadn't realized that.

Ken nods. "Yes, really. I noticed that some time ago."

For a moment, I consider his words while leaning my head back against his chest. It is certainly true that Gallou belongs to the small group of patients I really came to care for. "I think… Gallou is just so calm and peaceable. In these times, you don't get that type of person very often anymore. And whenever I talked to him, he made me feel… well, calmer. More composed. More hopeful, too. The world seemed less awful when I could see it through his eyes", I try to explain, somewhat haltingly.

"In that case, I am grateful to him," Ken replies seriously.

I raise my head to smile at him. It is, I suppose, a fine line he walking right now, trying to show me how much he cares without making me feel smothered. He's doing a rather good job of it, I must say.

"And soon, you'll even have the opportunity to thank him personally. It must be almost noon by now, surely?" I try to catch a glimpse of the watch on his wrist to ascertain the correctness of my assumption.

Ken, on the other hand, looks up at the sky instead. "Yes, almost," he confirms with a nod towards the sun, nearly in its zenith. "Should we be going, do you think?"

"Yes, please," I nod. "I don't want to be late."

When we arrived on the train from Paris late last night, a cousin of Gallou's – a big, silent man with a weathered face – collected us at the station with a horse-drawn cart and took us to the small stone house up on a cliff that will be home to us for the next two weeks. The house, if I understood that correctly, used to be the childhood home of Gallou's wife Berthe. And yet, no one would ever guess that it hasn't been lived in for a while, considering how spick and span it is – undoubtedly the joint work of Berthe and Nolwenn. It reminds me a bit of Four Wind's own House o' Dreams and maybe, that fits nicely. Because this will be _our_ house of dreams, mine and Ken's, even if only temporarily.

Awaiting us in the dream house was, beside a cosy fire and enough food to feed a company at the least, an invitation, written in Nolwenn's hand, asking us to join the Gallou family for lunch on their farm today. And this is where we are now setting out to go, after a late morning and that stroll along the beach.

The Gallous' farm looks just like I imagined it would. Old, enchanted-looking stone building are set in lightly billowing fields and even at first glance, I can't help wondering how Gallou was ever able to bear leaving this place.

I look up at Ken, just meaning to say something, when the excited voice of a child interrupts me. "They're here, everyone!" it calls out in French.

Upon closer inspection, I see a boy with a cheerful grin and an unruly mop of hair, standing on a pile of wood next to one of the stables and eyeing us unashamedly. "Hello, Per," I greet him, because who but cheeky Per could this possibly be?

Per's grin widens. His eyes move from me to Ken, who lightly touches his temple in greeting. Awkwardly, but with much enthusiasm, Per returns the salute and it is with a certain wistfulness that I look at the gangly boy, standing to attention on that pile of wood and saluting so earnestly. May the God of his father give that he will never learn the bitter reality of so small a gesture.

"Sister Bertha!" another voice exclaims, coming from the other side of the yard where the main house is.

I turn my head and instinctively, a smile spreads over my face. There's just one person in this world who calls me this, after all. "Gallou!" I greet him joyfully, taking the hand he offers me.

"I am glad that you have come, Sister Bertha," he announces and I know without that doubt the he means every word. Without letting go of my hand, he turns to a woman who is slowly walking up to us. She is smaller than me and next to giant Gallou she looks positively tiny. Her smile is kind, almost a little shy, but her eyes are alert and intelligent and somehow, I don't doubt that on this farm, nothing happens against her will.

"My dear Berthe," Gallou introduces her and his face is luminous as he looks at her. Letting go of my hand, he places his own good hand on his wife's shoulder and gently urges her forward. When she, in turn, shakes my hand, her hold is strong and secure.

I, for my part, look over my shoulder to were Ken is watching is with indulgent patience. "And this is Kenneth Ford, my husband." I can't hide a tiny smile at the words. It is the first time I have called him that outside of my mind.

"Madame Gallou, Monsieur Gallou," Ken greets politely, shaking the hands of both. "Pleased to me you."

"It is our pleasure, Colonel Ford," Gallou assures him warmly, before turning around. "Children!" he calls out. "Come here!"

While Gallou waits for his offspring to assemble, I risk a quick glance at Ken. I didn't miss the slight change in him when Gallou addressed him with his correct military rank – an almost imperceptible sigh, a sagging of his shoulders. I know what it is that weighs on him. We both hoped to be able to escape this war for some days. But he can't escape it. Not as long as he is in uniform and in uniform he will be until the war is over – for him, or for all of us.

Ken must have felt my gaze for he looks down at me and while his smile is a little lopsided, it is also comforting to see. Then he lays a hand on the small of my back, steering me towards the house Gallou is inviting us to enter with emphatic gestures.

Upon stepping inside, I only get a quick look at a simply but cosily decorated living room, when something collides with my legs. Surprised, I look down and am met by a gap-toothed smile beneath brightly shining eyes.

This, then, must be Katell.

"You saved my father", she small girl announces with much conviction before stretching out her arms towards me, clearly expecting me to pick her up. And as I steady her against my hip, I am quietly grateful for the somewhat unexpected strength I developed after years of moving around my patients. Katell, after all, is a child of four or five years – she can't be much older than Ian, I realize with some unease – and does not have her mother's slight stature.

Now that we are eye-to-eye, Katell takes a moment to consider me intently. "You are pretty," she informs me matter-of-factly – maybe the highest praise possible, coming from a small girl – then turns her gaze on Ken, who is still standing behind me. "Who are you?" she demands to know, voice sceptical.

"I am her husband," Ken answers kindly. He manages to keep a straight face but I know he must be suppressing a smile.

Katell eyes him critically for several seconds. "Boys are icky," she declares and abruptly turns away from him. I can see his shoulders shake with silent laughter and bite back a smile myself.

Meanwhile, Katell has moved on to a further inspection of me. "Your hair glitters," she informs me, which does, admittedly, surprise me a little. I've never before heard of glittering hair, but then again – what do they say about children and fools?

Berthe takes this moment to intervene. "Give our guests a moment to arrive properly first, darling," she asks Katell. On her face is the long-suffering expression of mothers the world over.

Her daughter, however, just regards her dispassionately, before letting me know in no uncertain terms that she wants to be let down again. The moment I have set her back on her feet, she runs off, disappearing through a door.

Instead, Gallou comes closer, pushing a tall, long-limbed boy along in front of him. "Elouann, our oldest son," he announces with obvious pride.

Now, I know Elouann to be no older than thirteen or fourteen, but there is something in his eyes and in the way he holds himself that belies his young years. The war has robbed him of his childhood too soon.

Politely, Elouann extends a hand towards us both. His wistful gaze focuses on the medals on Ken's chest for a moment too long, before he turns away abruptly. I'm not sure if Ken noticed, but as I look to the side, I see Berthe watching her son with concern. I would like to tell her that there is time for him still, but that wouldn't be the truth. Those boys that are now being called up were only fourteen as well when the war started. And who would have thought then that, four years later, these boys would be in uniform?

I sigh quietly and Ken gently squeezes my arm. Maybe he did notice, after all.

Elouann steps back to stand behind his parents, just as Gallou remarks, "And over there is Loïc." His arm stump points at the door through which Katell vanished earlier.

"He's a little shy," Berthe adds apologetically.

I peer at the door, standing slightly ajar, and it takes a moment until I can see something in the half-dark behind it. The first thing I spy are the yellow eyes of a giant red cat. Only afterwards do I notice the stocky boy holding the cat in his arms. I smile encouragingly at him but only succeed in making him hide his face in the cat's red fur and step back into the dark.

If I hadn't already known, I never would have guessed that cheeky Per and self-assured Katell are the siblings of polite Elouann, old beyond his years, and painfully shy Loïc. But then – I don't think anyone would have bet on my siblings and I being related either.

"Where is Nolwenn?" I ask, remembering the missing Gallou child.

"In the kitchen," Gallou answers. "She is the best little cook, my Nolwenn. No one cooks as good as she does, except her mother!" He smiles widely as his wife and receives an indulgent but loving smile back.

I reach back with one hand, touch Ken's fingers with my own for a moment. If we are like Berthe and Gallou in twenty years… well, I won't be complaining. Ken's thumb brushes against the back of my hand before I pull it back again.

"Nolwenn, please come and say hello," Berthe calls her oldest daughter. At first, the rattling of pans can be heard, and some moments later a slender girl appears in the doorway. Wiping her hands on her apron, she raises her head and smiles shyly at me. Then her eyes fall on Ken and very suddenly, she is blushing furiously. For a second, she stands frozen in the doorway before turning abruptly and fleeing back into the kitchen.

I can't help a little smile. Oh, to be sixteen once more!

"She reminds me of you," Ken murmurs into my ear, clearly amused, and my smile widens. Because I am very aware that only our similar reactions to his appearance connect my sixteen-year-old self to poor Nolwenn. There was a time when I wasn't able to speak even one word in his presence.

"And look where we are now," I whisper and can feel him laughing.

Gallou and Berthe have taken the moment to disappear into the next room and are just returning. Berthe is pulling along an unwilling Katell by her hand and pushing a terrified looking Loïc in front of her. The red cat meows in protest. In Gallou's arms, however, there is a baby, whom he carries it with a gentleness that one wouldn't expect of him at first glance but that is, in truth, such a vital part of him.

"And this is our youngest daughter," he explains as he comes closer to us. It is one of the most amazing aspects of Gallou with what absolute pride he talks about every one of his children.

I bend forward a little to look at the baby girl who looks back with wide eyes. She can't be more than a few weeks old. "What is her name?" I ask.

"Berthe. Named for the best wife in the world," Gallous smiles at his wife. "And the best nurse in the world."

It takes me a moment to realize that he means me.

"Gallou…" I murmur, feeling quite helpless. Now it's my face feeling suspiciously warm all of a sudden.

"It's quite right, Sister Bertha," Gallou nods, very decidedly. "It's quite right this way." He appears to be very pleased with himself.

Just as I open my mouth to reply – probably to lodge a protest – I can feel a hand at my back and a warm breath at my neck. "Even if it's the first time in your life – just accept it," Ken murmurs into my ear.

So I shut my mouth again and look down at young Berthe once more. Very cautiously, almost hesitatingly, I raise a hand and touch the baby's soft cheek. Then I raise my head to look back at Gallou, watching us patiently.

"I… thank you, Gallou. I really don't think I deserve such an honour, not even a shared one, but… please know that I appreciate it. Thank you," I manage. My throat feels strangely tight. My free hand reaches back once more and I feel Ken folding my fingers into his own.

Gallou smiles. "I know you do", he says. "And you do _too_ deserve it, just you believe old Gallou. You doubt too much, Sister Bertha."

Slowly, I shake my head. Looking down at the baby once more, I feel a smile creeping onto my lips. "Not today, Gallou," I reply. "Today, I won't doubt."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The Rose of No Man's Land' from 1918 (lyrics by Jack Caddigan, music by James Alexander Brennan)._


	51. With but a sigh

_June 27_ _th_ _, 1918  
Brittany, France_

 **With but a sigh**

Eyes still closed, I listen to the whisper of the wind and the rolling sound of the waves. I am on the brink between sleeping and waking, where nothing ever seems truly impossible. The place, as my mother always used to say, where fairies and sprites live and no one ever really grows up.

My dream is still dancing at the edges of my consciousness, slowly fading. I hold onto it for a while longer yet before slowly letting it slip through my fingers, quietly biding it farewell. I am sad to see it go, but glad for having had it at all.

For while my brother found my tears for me, I needed my husband to give me back my dreams.

Behind my eyelids, the light flickers warm and golden, and so I leave the world of fairies and sprites to enter a world that, at this place and in this moment, feels almost as magical. The sun is just edging above the horizon, painting colours on the walls, immersing the room into red and gold and orange.

I am alone but I don't mind. He will come back. He always does.

So I sink deeper into the pillows once more, pull the blanket tightly around myself, and close my eyes again. The light of the rising sun dances on my eyelids, but for the kind of dream I am dreaming right now, I need no sleep.

How much times passes I cannot say. Minutes maybe, or else not even one second. Time seems to have no meaning here. And if it would never again pass at all, I wouldn't mind that either. Even if I were to live in this moment forevermore, I would not tire of it.

Footsteps on the staircase tell me that I won't be alone in the moment for very long anymore, making it ever so much sweeter. The door opens with a creaking sound and the footsteps come closer, before coming to a halt next to the bed. I keep my eyes closed but my smile must have betrayed me, because moments later, lips press against mine, feeling rough from the wind and tasting of the sea's salt.

"Good morning, my love," Ken whispers.

I open my eyes, smile at him. He is bending over me, his face just inches from mine. A drop of water falls from his hair, falling on my face and rolling along my cheek, akin to a tear. Gently, he kisses the droplet away.

"Good morning," I reply quietly. "How long have you been up?"

"Hm… about an hour? I went for a swim," he answers, while one finger re-draws the lines of my face.

I smile. "You don't say…" I tease, pushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead.

His gaze touches mine and he returns the smile. "Why don't you come along tomorrow?" he suggests. The finger taps lightly against the tip of my nose.

"Isn't the sea cold this early in the morning?" I ask warily. As I lay a hand against his cheek, it does, indeed, feel cool to the touch.

"A trifle cold," Ken admits. "But it's refreshing." His finger travels down my neck, over my shoulder, until it reaches my collarbone.

"I have no bathing things with me," I remind him, not without a tinge of regret. Then I catch the finger having gone astray, seeing as it has just started on the process of wandering further downwards from my collarbone. Instead, I pull it up to my lips and press a kiss on its tip.

Ken laughs softly. "Me neither," he admits easily. And indeed. The towel slung casually over one shoulder is the sole article of clothing on him.

"I can see that," I remark drily, raising both eyebrows.

Grinning widely, Ken leans forward and steals a kiss. I let my hands trail up his arms, slide them over his shoulders. The towel falls to the floor, instantly forgotten.

"Don't go and scare the neighbours," I chide him, trying to look strict and not really succeeding.

"Oh, this place is so secluded, I doubt that anyone would take offense. The beach is deserted this early in the morning," Ken counters easily. His eyes move over my face, following the path the bold finger took earlier. As his gaze, too, reaches my collarbone, I put a finger beneath his chin and push his head up a little, so that he is now looking me in the eye.

"Still," I argue, "It might be normal for a soldier to go bathing in a state of undress, but for us nurses, it's unthinkable to even go out into the open with our hair uncovered, forget about other body parts!"

Ken hums thoughtfully. "Need I be worried that my wife knows this much about the bathing habits of other men?"

I shrug, or try as well as I can while still lying down. "If you had wanted sweet and innocent, you shouldn't have married a nurse," I inform him as loftily as I can manage, considering the fact that Ken has just pushed aside the blanket and has one of his hands travelling downwards over the thin cotton of my nightdress.

"I wanted you," he answers simply. His fingertips dance along my body. Our faces are so close I can taste the salt on his breath.

"Past tense?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. My hands are still exploring his shoulders and back. With one thumb, I stroke over the cool skin along his spine. His small shudder is not owed to the cold.

"Want, wanted, will always want," Ken murmurs against my lips before closing the last inch between us and taking my breath away with a kiss.

And then he proceeds to prove quite _how_ much truth there is to his words.

Even hours later, the memory of the morning is enough for a dreamy little smile to slip onto my lips. At one point, I get lost in the memory of it to such an extent that Nolwenn needs several attempts until she succeeds in gaining my attention. When I finally do look at her, her face is set in an expression of such confusion that I actually feel a little embarrassed and resolve instantly to leave memories from the marital bed where they belong from now on.

Nolwenn, however, seems to have a sixth sense, for this is exactly the subjects she apparently wants to talk about. Over the dough she is kneading with surprising strength when one considers her slight figure, she keeps darting shy glances at me until she finally seems to have worked up enough courage and takes a deep breath.

"Is it nice? Being married?" she blurts out.

Slowly, I raise my head and consider her thoughtfully while I try to decide how much of the truth I can share with this innocent girl. It still surprises me to think that, a mere seven years ago, I was just like her.

"Well, I think it depends, but… if husband and wife love each other, being married is very nice," I answer carefully.

"And you and Monsieur Ford do love each other," Nolwenn replies, sounding pleased.

I nod, smiling, and give the memory of the morning, already creeping closer once more, a decided shove, though not without a tinge of regret.

Nolwenn's gaze travels over to the window, through which Ken and her brothers can be seen, hard at work in trying to patch up an old fishing cutter that has sprung a leak. My husband is as much a recruit to those boys as I am to Nolwenn in the kitchen. He might be able to lead a company or a battalion, same as I can keep both a schoolroom and a hospital ward under control, but carpentry is as unusual a pastime for him as the baking of bread is for me.

"If I ever marry, it will be to a man like Monsieur Ford," Nolwenn remarks absent-mindedly. Then, suddenly, she seems to realize who she's talking to, for her pale cheeks colour and she looks up at me, alarmed.

"I would certainly recommend it," I respond mildly and give her a soothing smile.

Hesitantly at first, but then more confidently, Nolwenn returns the smile. Her hands are still kneading the dough and because I know that she won't accept any help from me, I instead walk around the table set up in the middle of 'my' house of dreams and fetch a kettle from one of the cupboards. I fill it with water from the well, which Ken brings in each morning with surprisingly few complaints, and put it on the antiquated stove. It takes certain dexterity to light it up and in the first few days, I burned my fingers in the attempt more often than I care to admit, but by now, I seem to have gotten the knack of it.

"My friend Nina's sister got married before the war. She was very much in love as well," Nolwenn relates without warning. "Her husband was killed at Verdun."

I take a deep breath. Slowly, I turn around to look at her.

Nolwenn returns my gaze searchingly. "But you don't want to talk about that, do you?" she realizes with the sensitivity that is such an inherent part of her.

"Not unless I have to," I admit.

"You don't," Nolwenn is quick to assure. "That wasn't even my point, to be honest. It's only…" She breaks off and glares at the dough.

"What is it?" I query gently.

Nolwenn sighs, giving the dough a forceful whack. "Josselyn, Nina's sister, was awfully in love with her husband and on one hand, I hope that I will find a man I can love as much, but on the other hand…" she breaks of for a moment, searching for words, "On the other hand, I am terrified by the thought of never leaving this place, for as long as I live."

Her hands have stilled, buried on the dough as they are, and the look she gives me is both anxious and beseeching.

"Oh, Nolwenn," I murmur.

"You must understand this! You have seen so much. You saw London and Paris! I have never gone farther than _Brest_." She spits out the last word, almost scornfully.

I refrain from pointing out that Brest is said to be a rather pretty town. Instead, I quickly check the process of the water heating up in the kettle before taking a couple of steps towards Nolwenn, all the while marshalling my thoughts.

"You know… when I was your age, I wasn't so different from you," I tell her slowly. "I grew up on a small island, in a village not all too different from this one. In my first eighteen years, I left the village, but not the island, and that's despite how _hungry_ I was for the world out there. I went to Montreal, the biggest city in our country, and when even Montreal started feeling too small, I came to Europe."

"See!" Nolwenn interjects hotly. "You _do_ understand!"

"I understand very well. And if Paris or London or even New York is where you want to go, then go there you should. But will you allow me one piece of advice? As someone who has already gone?"

Nolwenn nods. There's something in her eyes, part wariness, part hope, that tells me I mustn't get this wrong.

"What you have here is beautiful, Nolwenn. This place is a paradise, even if it might seem like prison to you sometimes. And your family is so very lovely, as much as they must annoy you at times. I had all this as well and didn't realize it until it was lost to me. I searched for something I had and it took a long time until I found it again. Go out into the world and live out your adventures, but do me a favour and don't make the same mistake I did. Despite everything out there that is calling to you, never forget what you already have," I ask her seriously.

With wide eyes, Nolwenn looks at me as she mulls over my words for a long while. "No. I will not, Madame Ford," she finally promises, almost solemnly.

Then she smiles at me so brightly that her entire face is lit up and quite suddenly, I have little doubt that Nolwenn will find a man to bring her to Paris or London or even to New York. And if not – well, then she will make it there on her own. I am sure she will manage that as well.

A knock on the front door brings our conversation to an end, but a quick glance at the girl tells me that she looks more content than she did before. If I achieved that, maybe I did something right after all.

"Come in," I call out and moments later, Berthe enters the kitchen, holding her youngest daughter. Looking out of the window, I can see that she brought Katell as well. She is currently clinging to Ken's back like a little monkey and the sight makes me smile. Who would have thought that suave, worldly Kenneth Ford was capable of being so patient with a bunch of children?

"You have to tell me if our children become a burden to you," Bertha remarks, having obviously followed my gaze. "They really don't have to be here so very often."

Nolwenn looks up indignantly, obviously gearing up to protest against such a statement, but I just laughingly shake my head. "No, it's quite alright. It's all nice and well to have time for just the two of us, but we also like having the children here."

And that's the actual truth. Ken and I have our shared hours when morning dawns, when evening falls and in the dark of the night and I wouldn't give up those hours for anything, but at the same time, it is nice to have the Gallou children with us during the day. They do us good, I think. There's just something about them, something that is laughing and innocent and golden, that Ken and I have forgotten and that they teach to us, much more so than woodwork and the baking of bread. Our little paradise wouldn't be what it is without the Gallou children.

Berthe regards me sceptically for a moment but once she realizes that I am being serious, a small smile steals onto her lips. "Well, you are welcome to them," she assures with a slight wink.

I laugh, not the least at Nolwenn's affronted expression, as I walk over to my kettle that is now calling for my attention by whistling loudly. The water is boiling and so I take the small pouch from my pocket and shake some of the tiny, dark seeds into the palm of my hand. I just mean to add them to the boiling water when I hear Berthe behind me, "Bring Monsieur Ford and your siblings something to drink please, Nolwenn."

Her voice is… strange, somehow, so I turn around quickly. Those intelligent eyes are fixed on me, thoughtfully, searchingly.

"But _Maman_ –," Nolwen starts to protest.

She gets no further. "Now, Nolwenn!" her mother demands in a voice that clearly tolerates no backtalk. "Monsieur Ford must be thirsty."

From beneath lowered eyelids, Nolwenn gazes at her mother rebelliously, but she is clever enough to know when a battle is lost. So she cleans her hands of the dough without another word, before fetching a jug of water and several mugs. As she leaves the kitchen, she eyes me curiously, but I try to keep my face expressionless.

After the front door has closed behind Nolwenn, Berthe slowly comes closer to me. When she talks, her voice is gentle. "I realize that I have no right to ask you this, but – well, you are very young and very alone, Madame Ford, and I am wondering… why do you think this is necessary?"

Lowering my head, I look down at the seeds in my hand. Queen Anne's Lace. It doesn't surprise me to hear that a woman like Berthe knows about the power of these tiny seeds, which I only gathered from conversations overheard in the sisters' quarters. Taken regularly, they have the power to prevent new life before it has even begun.

"Don't you want to tell me?" Berthe encourages and walks around the old, much-nicked table. When she has almost reached me, I open my hand abruptly and let the seeds fall into the boiling water.

"It's just bad timing," I murmur defensively.

Berthe, however, is not discouraged by that. "Why do you think that?" she asks quietly.

I sigh, feeling frustrated. "I have my work. I have no use for a – for a _child_." The last word gets caught my throat and I almost have to spit it out. I keep my eyes lowered intentionally, so I don't have to look at young Berthe, watching me wide-eyed from where she perches in her mother's arms.

The older Berthe, meanwhile, makes a humming sound. "But that's not all, is it?" she asks sympathetically.

I shrug, knowing fully well that my rebellious attitude is not dissimilar to Nolwenn's earlier. How can it be that, just ten minutes ago, I felt ever so grown up when talking to Nolwenn, but now am reduced to little more than a child myself?

But I suppose Berthe is right, isn't she? I _am_ very young and very alone. The mere thought of sitting in England, all alone, a child under my heart or on my arms, while Ken is fighting in France, perhaps never to come back again… the mere thought fills me with cold, hard dread.

"You're afraid," Berthe remarks with feeling. "It is alright to be scared, especially in times like these." She reaches out to gently stroke my arm and I swallow hard. Tears prick my eyes but I force them back angrily.

"No one knows if he will return to me," I murmur, my voice sounding hoarse. "How could I ever do that to a child? Force it to grow up without a father, in this God-forsakenworld we live in…"

Berthe nods pensively. "These are truly hard times. It is, therefore, even more important that we do not despair. I think it would give your husband hope to know that he not only has you to come back to but your child as well. And if he won't return, the child will be both comfort and memory to you."

"Memory!" I cry desperately. "And each day, I would look into the face of his child and be reminded of everything I lost!"

"Lost… or gained," Berthe corrects gently. "We live on in our children. And equally, he would live on in his child. Never forget that, Madame Ford."

Slowly, I raise my head. There is a lump in my throat, rendering speech impossible, but Berthe seems to understand anyhow. Her eyes are full of sympathy as she brushes a teardrop from my face.

"Just think about it," she asks softly.

I take several deep breaths, before nodding silently.

Berthe looks as if she might say something else but then, abruptly, her head turns and she gazes warily at the window. Only several seconds later do I hear the raised children's voices that her mother's instinct alerted her to much sooner.

"Per is teasing Loïc again. Oh, just wait until I get hold of him!" she announces in a voice that does not bode well for Per. Turning to me, she asks, much kinder, "Can you hold the baby for a moment?"

I just want to decline but Berthe doesn't give me an opportunity to do so. Quickly, she transfers her youngest child into my arms and has disappeared through the door in a second. I am left in sudden silence, swallowing hard.

Young Berthe makes a quiet sound and as I have always found screaming children to be rather intimidating, I hurry to walk over to the living-room. Once there, I sit down on the old sofa, adjusting the child in my arms, and silently pray that her mother will return soon.

But my prayers remain unheard. Minutes pass and after a while, my eyes are drawn to the baby almost of their own volition. She returns my gaze and her own eyes are round and alert. Slowly, I start to relax and I have to say… it doesn't feel so very bad. The sound of the sea has a calming effect, as does the sweet, warm weight of the child in my arms.

Time passes – I couldn't say how much – as I study the tiny face. Only when I hear a soft sound coming from the door, do I look up.

Ken stands in the doorway, looking down at me and the baby. There's a longing in his eyes, so raw and unguarded that it almost breaks my heart. Then he notices my gaze and I almost expect him to pull up his mask, as he usually does when he doesn't want to appear vulnerable. But instead, he just smiles at me and comes closer.

"I'm sorry," he apologises. "I might have been lost in a dream just there." He appears a little embarrassed, the smile a little wistful, but there's absolute honesty in his eyes.

Instinctively, I reach for him and he catches my hand between both of his, raises it to his lips and kisses every fingertip. The fear of losing him overwhelms me so suddenly and with such force, that I feel myself choke up.

"I know," he answers my thoughts. "I feel the same way."

Then he sits down next to me, sliding a hand behind my neck and pressing a kiss to my forehead. He pulls my head down against his shoulder and I hide my face in his neck, furiously blinking away tears. His fingers thread into my hair.

We stay like this, for several long minutes, until the baby between us demands attention. Only reluctantly do I lean back and look down at small Berthe.

"It's fascinating, isn't it? So tiny and yet so perfect. And to think that she has her entire life in front of her still…" Ken shakes his head in disbelief.

I nod slightly. "Do you want to hold her?" Even as I ask it, part of m expects him to decline, but instead, he nods silently and I help him take the child into his own arms.

After that, silence falls. Ken looks down at the child and I observe him from beneath lowered lashes. His face is filled with wonder, even awe, and I find myself pondering whether there might not be some truth to Berthe's earlier words yet.

"You know, when I look at her, so innocent, so unspoiled by the evils of this world, I find myself thinking that she might be the reason," Ken remarks quietly after a while.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The reason for everything we're doing. Because this war isn't about defeating the Kaiser anymore, or the German people," Ken answers slowly. "But if we manage to give children like her a long and happy life, without them ever having to live through a war of their own, then maybe there's truly some sense to it yet. It's not about us anymore. Sometimes, I think we are already lost. But if we can make the future world a better one, for our children and those who will come after them, it is worth every sacrifice."

My voice is hoarse, as I murmur, "We will try."

Ken raises his head. His smile is wistful, even sad, but there's a flicker in his eyes that almost looks like hope. Hope in the eyes of one who hardly ever dares _to_ hope. A soft sound of the baby pulls his gaze downwards once more and he strokes a finger along the soft cheek, the gentlest of touches.

For a moment, I just watch them silently, hardly daring to breathe. Then I lean forward, bestow a kiss on Ken's hair and touch Berthe's tiny fingers, before getting up. With studied casualness, I stroll into the kitchen, take hold of the kettle and carry it over to the sink. Silently, I watch as its contents disappear down the drain.

Let fate decide.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When you're away' from 1914 (lyrics by Henry M. Blossom, music by Victor Herbert)._


	52. Between the salt water and the sea sand

_July 2_ _nd_ _, 1918  
Brittany, France_

 **Between the salt water and the sea sand**

Humming softly to myself, I dry off the last plate and put it back into one of the cabinets. I'll never be a perfect housewife – a fact that Dr MacIver is likely to appreciate – but I do want the house to be in order when we leave tomorrow.

Interrupting my humming, I sigh softly instead. Our two precious weeks have passed much sooner than I ever could have feared. In the blink of an eye, it seems, the day of our parting has almost arrived. And this separation, as I know with certainty, will be much harder than the one that came before.

I cast one last look at the kitchen, and while it isn't nearly as spotless as it was on the day of our arrival, I also don't have to be ashamed of its state. Extinguishing the light, I walk over into the living room, where I sit down on the sofa and reach for a book I left there earlier.

The house is quiet, with only the wind and the sea softly whispering in the background, as they always do in this place. Ken went down into the village after supper. I think he wanted to send a telegram to Paris to inform Diane of our planned arrival so that she can send someone to fetch us from the train station.

Diane, there's no denying that, played a vital part in making all this possible. During those two weeks, she accepted delivery of our mail and sent it on to us, with our replies taking the opposite route. Without her, our secret marriage likely wouldn't have remained secret very long and the more help she offers, the more convinced I am that her cool, cultured façade hides a rather romantic streak after all.

We are to take the train tomorrow afternoon, so that we'll hopefully arrive in Paris early the next day. From there, it's to the east for Ken, probably to the Arras region once more. My destination, on the other hand, is Liverpool, where I'll board a hospital ship. And then, very soon, I will set foot onto Canadian soil for the first time in two years. A lovely thought and yet… right now, it pales against the dreadful thought of our impending separation.

Frustrated, I lay down the book. I am unable to concentrate on it anyway, merely staring down at the very same line for ages, not realizing what it says. In all likelihood, I am simply too shaken to do something as mundane as reading.

I get up from the sofa, then pause in the middle of the parlour. My gaze travels through the room, searching for something that might yet be able to distract me from my thoughts. Quite by accident, I glance at the window and – isn't that someone out there? Narrowing my eyes, I take a closer look and yes, despite the falling dusk, I spy a figure, coming up to the house in long strides.

I walk quickly over to the front door, then remain standing on the doorstep, waiting for Ken to scale the cliff that our house of dreams perches upon. Now that our last remaining hours have begun to trickle away, I'd prefer not to be parted from him at all.

Impatiently, I bop up and down on the balls of my feet until Ken is finally close enough. "There you are. I've missed you," I declare with a smile, stretching out a hand towards him.

He raises his head.

My smile dies. My hand falls back to my side.

His face is frozen, the eyes dark and hard. His jaw is firmly set, the eyebrows drawn together. It is impossible to say what he's thinking.

"Ken?" I ask softly.

Without a word, he abruptly pulls me close. His arms hold me tight, his face pressing into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. I can feel his breath on my skin, coming fast and fitful. As I cautiously raise a hand to touch his face, I can feel the pulse at his temple, hammering against my fingertips. His body is strung to breaking point.

"Ken? What's wrong?" I murmur, feeling helpless.

Still no answer, only his arms tightening.

I am left with no choice but to stand still and wait and not wonder about what it is that he's not telling me. Gently, I stroke his bent head, but it takes long minutes until his heartbeat starts to slow and some of the strain leaves his body.

Slowly letting go of a breath, Ken raises his head. He doesn't look at me though, instead fixing his gate onto a point above my head. Still, his arms hold me. A muscle jumps at his jaw. I can see him trying to regain his composure.

Cautiously, I raise both hands, placing them on either side of his face and pull it down a little. Only when he finally looks at me, albeit unwillingly, do I repeat my question. "What's wrong?"

Seconds pass. Then, through clenched teeth, he forces out a question of his own. "The ship you are supposed to join – what is it called?"

I frown, confused, but he avoids my gaze once more. "The ship? That's the… the Llandovery Castle, but –" I am still not sure why he is asking this.

And I get no further. As abruptly as he pulled me close earlier, he now lets go of me again. Before I can get ahold of him myself, he has pushed past me, disappearing into the house.

I remain standing on the doorstep, staring after him perplexedly, and trying to get my bearings. His behaviour confuses me and, to be honest… it also scares me a little. Slowly, I follow him into the house, pulling the door shut behind me. My cautious steps carry me forward, to the kitchen, from where loud, clanging noises tell me that Ken is obviously going through the kitchen cupboards. He's not doing it carefully.

"Why is there not a proper drink to be had in this entire house, for God's sake?" he curses, shutting another cabinet door with unnecessary force.

And as I watch him, his movements agitated, his posture strained, his face frozen into a mask, I am reminded of what Persis told me about the day when he learned of the second bombing raid on Étaples. In his sorrow, he must have appeared quite similar then.

Only… I am here now, am I not?

Ken, meanwhile, has found a bottle of red wine. Brows knitted together in a frown, he stares down at the label, making a disdainful sound. Red wine, in all likelihood, is not what he considers to be a 'proper drink'. There's nothing else to be found here though and he seems to realize that, for he shakes his head impatiently and looks around, clearly searching for something. "Corkscrew?" he demands, without so much as looking into my direction.

At this, the feeling of fear within me gives way to anger at last. I cross over to him, but instead of offering him the asked-for corkscrew, I close my fingers around the neck of the bottle. Abruptly, he turns his head and looks at me through narrowed eyes.

"Would you mind telling me what happened instead of spending our last evening here getting drunk?" I ask sharply.

Our eyes meet. For an endless moment, we look at each other, silent. Then he lets go of the bottle without any warning, causing it to slip through my fingers as well and bursting into thousands of splinters on the tiles beneath our feet. A puddle of red spreads over the floor.

Ken doesn't even look down. With a jolt, he turns around and walks over to stand at the window, his back to me. The light of the setting sun refracts around his body. He doesn't move, gaze fixed ahead.

I too, remain standing, waiting, but never letting my eyes stray from his form. I can feel the red wine starting to drench my stockings but still I don't move. I won't, not until he has told me _what the hell_ is wrong.

Minutes pass. The silence is deafening.

Then, without any warning, the tension leaves Ken's body. His shoulders sink down, he lowers his head, rubbing his face with both hands. If he looked like he was about to destroy something just seconds before, he now appears utterly resigned.

For me, it is the cue to step out of the red wine puddle and slowly make my way over to him. When I lay a hand on his shoulder, I can feel him jump, but he allows it.

"Talk to me," I ask, more softly this time.

He sighs heavily. Without turning around, he answers, voice monotonous, "The Llandovery Castle was sunk last week by a German U-Boat. Hardly any survivors. The news just came from Paris."

I gasp for air, reeling backwards. My legs refuse to carry me. Blindly, I reach behind myself, until I can feel the familiar wooden security of a chair. I sink down upon it. The world is suddenly spinning too fast.

As if through a haze, I notice Ken turning around. Differing emotions pass over his face – anger, fear and something that comes close to desperation. Finally, concern wins out and now it is him walking towards me. He kneels down next to my chair, laying a hand against my face.

"Are you alright, love?" he asks quietly.

I nod. Then I shake my head. I have no idea if I am alright. "I'm feeling dizzy," I whisper finally.

Once more, his arms close around me, but this time, the touch is gentler. As if of its own accord, my head sinks down onto his shoulder. My fingers bury themselves into the cloth of his shirt. I breathe in his scent, in a desperate attempt to calm myself. His lips press against my temple.

At least I have him back. That, in any case, makes sense once more, even if nothing else in this world does.

A new thought flashes through my mind. Raising my head abruptly, I search his eyes. "If we hadn't gotten married… if I hadn't asked for leave…" I force out before words forsake me.

Yes. If.

"I know", Ken murmurs in answer, "I know." All of a suddenly, he looks awfully tired. Gently brushing a strand of hair from my eyes, he pulls my head down to lie on his shoulder. His arms hold me safe and sure and I feel myself wishing, desperately and forlornly, that he may never let me go again.

He doesn't. We stay in that kitchen, wrapped up in one another, until the sun has pulled back her last rays behind the horizon. Only then does Ken get up, pulling me with him, and leading me up the creaking staircase to the bedroom.

And even after we have gone to bed, his arms and the blanket form a cocoon around me, almost warm and reassuring enough to give an illusion of safety. "You should sleep," he murmurs, his lips close to my left ear.

Sighing softly, I reply, "I don't want to sleep. In sleeping, we waste time and I – I don't want to waste any more time. Not in our last night for… for however long it may be."

Or for ever.

He's going back to a place where every moment might be his last. And only coincidence saved me first from a fiery death under a burning sky and now from a cold, wet grave. Maybe Ken is right, after all. Maybe we're already lost.

Slowly, Ken runs a hand through my hair. "Do you want to talk about it?" he offers carefully.

I know what he means. The Llandovery Castle. The cold, wet grave that now won't be mine after all.

"Not particularly," I answer slowly. "To be honest, I liked it when the war stayed where it was." Where it couldn't hurt us.

It didn't escape my notice that Ken kept himself informed on war news in these past days. But he did it discreetly enough to allow me to withdraw into a world of dreams for a short while, where the war was both surreal and far away. It returned with ever more might tonight.

Ken hums in agreement. "Where do you think they will send you now?" he asks instead.

"Oh, I wish I knew! Wherever they need more nurses, I'd say. Chances are they're going to send me to another hospital behind the lines. Either up north, to Boulogne or Calais, or else to the area around Rouen or Le Havre," I ponder aloud. It helps to occupy the mind with practical matters. It always does.

"What about England?" Ken wants to know. He says it quite casually, but I can feel his body tense. Out of the corner of my eye, I look up at him. He is staring at the ceiling.

"Also possible, yes," I confirm. Detangling one hand from inside the blanket cocoon, I gently trail the line of his jaw with the tip of one finger. When he notices, he makes an effort to loosen the strained muscles and gives me an apologetic smile. His lips brush against my forehead, the briefest of touches, but then he's back to looking at the ceiling.

Taking a deep breath, he asks, "I won't be able to convince you to ask them to transfer you to England, will I?" His voice is still light, as if all this was quite inconsequential, but the tension in his body belies the casual tone of his words.

I sigh softly. "Ken…" I whisper.

"It's alright," he is quick to interrupt. "I knew what you were going to say. But I had to ask. You see why I had to ask, don't you? Especially after tonight."

Of course he had to ask. I understand that very well, even more so now that I have seen quite how much he worries for me. So I nod, curling even closer to him. "I'll take care," I promise.

Ken actually snorts. "No, you don't. That's the problem," he retorts, but his voice is resigned more than angry.

Still, I move to protest, but Ken doesn't let me. " _However_ ," he continues, "I am starting to believe that there's a guardian angel up there that cares about you as much as I do. I have resolved to place responsibility for wellbeing with that guardian angel, seeing as _I_ can't guarantee it and _you_ won't."

"You don't suppose that guardian angel would be up to looking after you as well, do you?" I enquire as I turn in his arms, the better to look at him.

Ken shakes his head decidedly. "That angel has its hands full just looking out for you," he explains. "And besides, I'm getting by."

Now it is me making a disbelieving sound as I sit up quickly. "Are you _kidding_ me? You're getting back to what is easily the most dangerous place on this earth and I'm supposed to believe that you're _getting_ by?" My voice sounds high-pitched with panic. "You might not want to tell me about it, but that doesn't mean I don't know how dangerous it is at the front."

Ken sits up as well, if slower than I did. I think I can hear him sighing softly. As I turn away, he lays both hands on my upper arms, gently turning me back towards him, so that we are eye to eye.

"What do you mean by that? When you say you don't want to talk about it?" he asks seriously.

I turn my head away. In the past two weeks, we haven't talked much about the war and our respective roles in it, but while I spoke about my experiences at least sometimes, Ken was very reserved about his. Even during the night when a dream of bombs and fire and _so much blood_ woke me, he comforted me, gently and patiently, but without offering even one word on his own experiences. And that's despite my two air raids being quite ridiculous next to what he must have suffered through already.

"You don't, do you? We once promised each other to be honest and for such a long time, we _were_ , but recently… I told you about Étaples and Flanders and the times before that, but from you – nothing," as I speak, my voice lowers to a mere whisper. The last word is almost too quiet to be heard.

When I look at him hesitantly, Ken meets my gaze, surely and steadily. There's regret in his eyes and something else, something darker, that I have no name for. Finally, he raises both hands, pushing strands of hair behind my ears and gently enclosing my face.

"I didn't tell you of what I experienced at the front, not because I don't trust you, not even because I'm trying to protect you," he clarifies. "The reason for it is down to me alone. I _can't_."

"Why not?" I ask, my voice more unsure than I would like.

Shaking his head slightly, Ken lowers his arms. His gaze travels downwards, settles on my hands, lying entwined in my lap, as if looking for words there. "Because I have to go back," he finally answers. "If I were to speak about what I experienced – about what I _did_ – that would mean letting it all out and I don't know if I am capable of getting it back _inside_ afterwards. I think about it – of course I do. I think about it every bloody second and yes, it pains me. But as long as I am only thinking it, it stays within me and there, I have control over it. Only by controlling it can I function and I have to function once I'm back there. Now more than ever. I can't permit myself to feel too much."

His words echo in the following silence and they are tinged with the same darkness that I have already seen in his eyes. It makes me shiver.

Moments pass. The silence expands. Several times, I move my lips to speak but every time, words leave me. Clenching my hands into fists, I burrow my fingernails into the palms of my hands until it hurts. If Ken notices, he doesn't show it. He just sits there, very still, head bent, like a penitent waiting for an absolution that might never come.

Slowly, I open my fists once more. With one hand, I touch his face instead, feathery light, laying it against his cheek and raising his head so he has to look at me. "I'm sorry," I whisper, meaning to say so much more than the words entail and hoping he understands.

Ken nods, very slightly. He turns his head, kisses the inside of my palm. "I love you," he replies simply and somehow, that's no answer at all and yet, it the only answer that matters. Then he scoots back a little, opening his arms for me, and I curl into them gratefully.

We stay that way, for long minutes. I can feel his breath wafting over my hair and his heart beating steadily beneath my fingertips, and feel both of us growing calmer. I just start wondering whether he might have fallen asleep, when he speaks into the silence, "Gallou sold me the house."

I blink, surprised. _What_?

Turning my head, I try to look at him, to see if he's being serious. But he avoids my gaze and prevents my attempt at sitting up again by holding me tighter.

"May I explain?" he asks.

I nod silently, still too struck to form a proper sentence.

He has bought a house?

 _This_ house?

"I know this will probably sounds very old-fashioned to you but… ever since we made our vows in Paris, I've been thinking about how little I have to give you," Ken begins. "These past two weeks were our only chance at married life for a very long time. And even beyond that, I have nothing concrete to offer you. We're both drifting over this continent with no place to call our own. And yet, you should have such a place. A _home_. And I should be the one giving it to you. That's why I thought… there will be other houses, of course, but for the moment – for the moment, I couldn't think of a better house than this one."

Wriggling free from his embrace a little, I look up at him. I try to think of something to say, but I am still too surprised to learn that he even has these thoughts. To me, they feel downright absurd in light of the fact that _he_ is home to me, after all.

"Old-fashioned, I told you," Ken remarks with a lopsided little smile. Running a hand through my hair, he repositions my head against his shoulder once more.

"We were happy here, weren't we?" he then asks quietly.

"I've never been as happy anywhere as I have been here with you," I answer, without so much as a second of hesitation. It was a sometimes bittersweet time but that just made it even more meaningful.

"Good," Ken replies simply,

His fingers gently massage my scalp and my eyes close of their own accord. Sleep pulls at the fringes of my consciousness, despite my resolve not to give in to it.

"You stopped drinking that tea," Ken states into the silence and just like that, I am wide awake once more.

So he did notice. I had wondered whether he might have.

"How…?" I begin, quite helplessly.

"I don't know. I guess it was just the most logical explanation," he answers. His voice is calm very matter-of-fact. I can't tell what he's thinking.

"I should have talked to you about this beforehand. This concerns us both," I admit ruefully. I can feel my heart beating in my throat. I don't dare look at him. Sleep has never felt so far away.

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "Maybe you should have. On the other hand, circumstances would prevent me from being, well, _there_ in the foreseeable future. And besides, I probably should have talked to you before buying a house as well, so… call it even?"

With a hiss, I let go of a breath I had been holding. I am unbelievably relieved that he isn't mad. And yet –

"As I said, right now, it's more your decision than mine," Ken already continues. "Still, if I may say this… I am glad about the decision you took in the end. Though I hope that –" Abruptly, he breaks off, clearing his throat. Suddenly, he seems to be almost nervous.

"Yes?" I prompt gently.

"Should you find out that you are… well, carrying our child, would you… resign from the army?" he asks hesitatingly.

"That very same day," I promise. The alternative hadn't even occurred to me. It is one thing to bring myself in not always totally safe situations. It's quite another to expose his child to any kind danger. The very thought is… unthinkable.

Ken takes a deep breath. I can feel him relaxing as the tension leaves his body. Carefully, I wind myself free from his hold a little and turn around, so that I can gaze down at him. For several moments, I study his serious face.

And then I understand. This is another reason why he bought this house. I won't leave Europe without him and he knows it. So he has made another home for me. Here, where I feel closer to my island than I have in a long a time and where there are people that could be akin to family for me.

He has created a sanctuary for me, just in case I ever find myself in need of shelter.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Scarborough Fair' from the 16_ _th_ _or 17_ _th_ _century (source unknown)._


	53. As the train moved out

_July 10_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 15 Ambulance Train, France_

 **As the train moved out**

Leaning forward, I press my forehead against the train window. The glass is cool against my skin, while my warm breath causes it to fog up. A veil of mist, hiding the French countryside passes by the window. Normandy, I think, but I couldn't be sure. I sigh softly and my eyes close of their own accord, as my thoughts, once more, travel back to that train ride to Paris. To the last hours I spent with my husband.

The train was crowded and it took an eternity to reach our destination. Again and again, passing military trains forced us into unplanned stops on this side or another. It wasn't different from the situation as I knew it from England but for the first time in my life, I didn't mind the wait. Because every military train we had to yield to delayed our inevitable separation for a few more, precious minutes.

Ken had found us two seats in an open-plan carriage and convinced me to lie down, my knees drawn upwards, my head in his lap. We hardly talked at all, for everything worth saying had already been said in the previous night. I dozed off several times, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic movements of the train and the gentle stroking of his hands. Ken, however, remained wide awake. Every time I looked up at him, my gaze was met by his, steady and unwavering.

We spent hours on that train and there was a moment when, still half-asleep, I found myself hoping that maybe, we had succeeded in stopping time. I would have spent the rest of my life in that crowded carriage and would have done it gladly, just so long as we would have been there together. But the light of morning revealed the suburbs of Paris passing by behind breath-clouded windows and ended my irrational hopes on the spot.

Diane awaited us at the Gare Montparnasse, holding a telegram with my next orders. No longer was Liverpool the destination of my travel. Instead, I was to report for duty in Abbeville that very same evening. If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the look in Ken's eyes when I told him what kind of duty I would do there.

I have to admit that there were moments when something within me rebelled against the concern he sometimes regards me with. Out of the two of us, I have much more cause for worry, after all. The danger he is in far surpasses anything I will ever encounter. I have slipped through fate's fingers twice now, but I know that he has managed the same feat an innumerable amount of times already. There's no telling if there won't come the day when, finally, he fails.

What I have understood by now is that the difference lies in the fact that he has no choice. Nothing was ever going to separate him from his men, but ever since Borden's conscription robbed even officers of their privilege to hand back their commission and go home, it's become quite impossible. Ken is bound by duty, as is every man his age. The danger is undisputed, as is the worry, but to rail against it would be quite useless. I have no _what if_ to torment me and that's where I differ from him.

Because I could turn around and go home tomorrow, if I so wished. I know Ken wishes I would. I have to give him credit for hardly ever mentioning it. He respects my decision, much as it counters his impulse to bring me to a safer place. I know how hard that is for him and I can guess at how it torments him at night. And yes, I've had weak moments when I was almost ready to do it, if only to take at least this one burden from his shoulders.

Why didn't I do it then? Why am I still here, in a softly rattling train somewhere in Normandy, in the middle of a moonless night?

In giving me our small Breton house of dreams on its cliff, buffeted by wind and sea, Ken took from me my fear of ending up like Polly, lonely and idle back in England. But there's a different fear, rooted deeper, that I wasn't aware of myself for a long time. And this fear didn't abate after our wedding but grew ever so much stronger instead.

I'm not foolish enough to think I will be able to do much for my husband or my brothers if they were to be wounded. Even when fate brought Ken to Arques and into my care, it did so against all odds. Those odds won't be beat a second time, as I am well aware. But it still makes me throw myself into my work in the hopes that, if _I_ can't help them, there will be someone else to do it.

It's a kind of barter and I hope that fate might have silently agreed to it. As long as I do my work, diligently and without complaint, there will hopefully be someone else to do it for those I love when the time comes for it. I know it's superstitious, but… well, what did Walter say? To believe in superstitions is a kind of belief as well. And right now, that seems to be the only belief I am capable of.

Even that superstitious belief staggered and stumbled, however, during those last shared minutes in a loud, dirty Parisian train station, when my train was all ready to leave and Ken still didn't show any intention of letting me go again. I knew beforehand that this separation would be the hardest yet – but never could I have imagined how hard. Even now, days later, the memory is enough to have me blinking away tears.

Angrily, I wipe my face with the back of one hand, but there's little I can do against the burning behind my eyelids. Without much success, I try to banish Ken into a corner of my memory, but as usual, he doesn't want to stay there. And so I get up, sure in the knowledge that nothing will distract me from the sad thoughts as reliably as good, honest, backbreaking work. Besides, my break is already ten minutes long and ten minutes really have to suffice around here.

Hospital ships are known among nurses as one of the easiest postings there are. The patients on them are usually convalescents, having spent several months in hospitals in France and England. Their healing process, therefore, is quite advanced already and while they still need care, there's no comparison to those patients straight from the front.

On the other end of the spectrum from hospital ships are ambulance trains. Ambulance trains are utilized to transport wounded and ill men all through France. From CCSs close to the front to the hospitals in the back and from there, on to the harbours along the coast for transfer to England. And sometimes, when the situation calls for it, ambulance trains are sent further onwards still. When it comes to regular postings, a CCS marks the place closest to the front where nurses can be found – but in an ambulance train, one can come even closer to it.

Ken knew that. When I showed to him the telegram with my amended marching order, he looked as if he had woken up to find himself in his worst nightmare. For it is No. 15 Ambulance train that will be both home and workplace for me in the foreseeable future.

Early in the war, ambulance trains were just adapted passenger trains, sometimes even cargo or cattle wagons, but our train was planned and built specifically as an ambulance train. For three years now, it has driven through France, and for the longest while, it did so under command of the RAMC, the medical corps of the British army. The CAMC took over only this spring and ever since, the train is manned by CAMC personnel. It was kitted out, or so they say, by Princess Christian and it is from her that it receives its unofficial name as well. Princess Christian Ambulance Train.

The train is made up of twelve grey wagons. Directly behind the locomotive is one that holds the guards' room as well as the infectious wards for our ill patients and the orderlies tasked with their care. Doctors and nurses only go in there when we have to, because afterwards, we invariably need to wash thoroughly. Granted, there are lavatories to do the washing and fresh water in tanks on the roof of the train, but no one has time for this kind of washing.

The second carriage is the staff car, containing the officers' and nurses' quarters, and this is where I have come to take my short break. The cabin I share with Miller, the other nurse, is tiny. A bunk bed, a wardrobe and the small table at the window where I just sat, and the cabin is filled to the brim. Right next door is our mess, just big enough for a bench seat, a table and two armchairs, and beside the mess is our lavatory, equally tiny. For while the train is equipped with everything we need, there is just never enough space.

Moving my arms backwards and forwards several times to relax the knotted muscles in my shoulders, I step out onto the narrow corridor. Turning right, I first pass the matron's cabin, then slip through door separating the nurses' quarters from those of the doctors. To my right are five doors – three cabins, one for each doctor, followed by their mess and lavatory.

The couplings connecting two carriages are bridged by gangplanks and enclosed by tarpaulin, so at least we aren't subjected to the weather's whims when crossing from one carriage to the next, but it remains a wobbly affair I still haven't gotten used to. I am, accordingly, relieved to find my feet on steady ground once more while I walk swiftly through the first of six ward cars. On both sides of the narrow aisle are fixed cots, always three on top of each other. The middle one can be folded back to be turned into a backrest so that, together with the lower cot, it forms a bench for patients to sit on. The more sitting cases there are, the more patients the train can hold.

Every ward car takes between 50 and 65 patients on average and as we are only three nurses, it's two ward cars to a nurse. Normally, we have about 400 patients on board, which equals the maximum capacity of the Stationary Hospital in Arques. According to Miller, the train gets filled by up to 700 patients at peak times and while I can't really imagine that, I'm afraid I will come to see it with my own eyes soon enough.

When it's three nursing sisters to several hundred patients, there's nothing in the way of night or day shifts. When we have patients on board, we are on duty and on our feet, no questions asked. Our shifts follow neither time nor plan, as I already learned on my first day here. A mere two hours after my arrival and shortly after midnight, the train left Abbeville, to arrive in Crouay in the morning and be loaded with 350 patients, followed by a midday departure and arrival in Rouen at nine in the evening. Five hours later, we departed once more in the direction of Sotteville.

At first, I thought this to be an extraordinary day, but the past week has taught me better. It's not seldom for the personnel of an ambulance train to be up and on duty for more than 24 hours straight, and in consequence I immediately lost what little I had reacquired in the way of sleep routine in Brittany, after coming off weeks of night duty. One advantage is that we are currently ferrying patients between hospitals and are, therefore, driving through the French countryside far behind the frontline which should serve to calm my husband, if nothing less. Right now, we're driving westwards – to Rouen, maybe, or Le Havre. We left Étaples at around seven in the evening and now it has to be past midnight, but I have a feeling we won't reach our destination before the next evening. Just another never-ending day.

I am passing through the first three ward cars with swift steps, nodding to the matron as I walk past her, and finally reach the pharmacy car, clamped between Miller's two ward cars. As the name implies, this carriage is where we keep medicines and drugs of all kinds, but also a treatment room that doubles as operating theatre in emergencies, and an office for the doctors. It is currently occupied by Dr Hunter, the CO of the train, who smiles in greeting when he sees my passing by the open door. Next to the office is the linen room as well as a small room holding so called 'medical comforts', which don't solely consist of liquors, but of which liquors certainly make up a sizable part.

As I am the newcomer among the nurses, I have been given responsibility of the last two ward cars. Behind them, there is the kitchen wagon, also holding sleeping quarters for the three French cooks, as well as the NCOs' mess. Next is the personnel car, where the NCOs sleep in an open plan carriage, and finally a wagon filled with stores and cupboards. Twelve carriages in total and if one isn't careful, it doesn't take long for one's entire world to shrink down to their size.

When I finally set foot into my first ward car, I am pleased to see most of my patients dozing, even if proper sleep is as unlikely for them as it is for us on this train. Some talk quietly, others whimper softly. When the train lurches forward for a second, one of them screams. As I walk down the aisle between the rows of cots, some faces turn to look at me. The men know me to be responsible, even if I spy Miller at the end of the car, bending over one of the lying cases. She took over my wards alongside her own while I had my ten-minute break. I nod at the patients as I pass them, making sure that no one requires my immediate attention, and then walk over to Miller.

Miller's given name is Pauline, but at our very first meeting the informed that Pauline was a cow's name and did she look like a cow to me? So I call her Miller and she calls me Blythe and I'd be lying if I claimed not to start every time she speaks the name that is my name no longer. Apart from that, Miller is just what my heart, tender as it still is from separation, needs. She is as impudent as she is fearless, as energetic as she is brash. She certainly suffers no fools, and to top it off, she has a kind of caustic humour that has regularly left me unsure of whether I am supposed to laugh or not.

We share a sleeping cabin, Miller and I, which she had declared to be a blessing, blithely informing me that the matron snores. Which she does, as I learned during the first night behind thin cabin partitions. Apart from nightly snoring, however, Matron Mary White can't be faulted. She is small and wiry and, as if to belie her name, everything about her is iron grey, most of all her will. She rules this train, there's no doubt about that, but she is also unfailingly just and always has an eye on Miller's and my wellbeing. Poor Dr Hunter, a very peaceable man, lives in a permanent state of fear, lest he get on her wrong side.

"Everything alright?" I ask Miller after having reached her, and quickly survey the patient in front of us. He is in one of the middle cots, which is nice because to reach him, we neither have to bend down deeply towards the floor, nor do we have to procure a stool to climb on.

Miller glances at me swiftly while answering, "Our southern rebel here is in pain, but I gave him something for that and now he's fine. Aren't you, Southern Rebel?"

The soldier takes some moments to realize that it is him she has re-christened Southern Rebel. Once he has understood that the question has indeed been posed to him, he is in such a hurry to answer that he chokes on his words and is overcome by a coughing fit. Miller not-so-lightly pats his shoulder and rolls her eyes in my direction.

"Fine, Miss. Thank you, Miss," the soldier manages to choke out. I can't quite place his accent, but his newly bestowed nickname and the part of his uniform peeking out from under the blanket reliable identify him as an American.

They still elicit a pained little feeling within me, the American boys. When I saw them march in Étaples in spring, they were so young and naïve and hopeful. Now they have become like our boys have been for years. Hurt, broken, and so much older than it should be possible to become in a mere three months.

In a more banal sense, it is fairly irritating that now, when I have only just learned to reliably place all the different accents of the British Isles, the powers that be have decided to throw an entirely new country at my feet, complete with at least as many accents as the British have. My lesson in phonetics has just begun anew.

"Where are you from?" I therefore ask the little American. His fearful eyes, previously fixed on Miller, dart over to look at me.

For a moment, he seems frozen and when he does speak, he does it so softly I have to lean forward to understand him. "Germantown, Miss. That's in Tennessee, Miss," he whispers.

I blink. Miller snorts. "That is really quite unfortunate," she remarks drily. The little American scoots further down under his blanket.

My colleague, however, has no more time for him. "How was your break?" she asks of me, even as she starts turning away from the American soldier.

I make sure to give him a quick smile – met with a wide-eyes gaze – before going after Miller. "As nice as ten measly minutes can be," I reply, shrugging. "It takes more time to walk through the entire train towards our cabin than I actually have to spend there."

"Which is why I usually hide in the linen room", Miller informs me with a wink. "It's closer and because no one sets foot in there voluntarily, you always have enough time and quiet for a cigarette or two."

I look at her, feeling a little startled. "But the smell…" I murmur, instinctively casting a glance over my shoulder to see if anyone heard her admission.

Miller just laughs. "You show me the soldier complaining about his linen smelling of tobacco," she demands, clearly unconcerned.

Opening my mouth to speak, I find myself closing it again after mere moments. "There you go," comments Miller with a satisfied nod and gently pats my cheek, before turning to march along the aisle, towards her own wards.

Shaking my head slightly, I look after her for a second or two before turning towards my own patients again. Southern Rebel seems to have nodded off, so I take a look at the man in the cot beneath him. Dark eyes meet my own and I blink in surprise.

He's not the first Indian soldier I see, not by far – according to Shirley, there are two or three times as many Indians fighting this war than there are Canadians – but their sight remains an exotic one. Dark skin, even darker eyes, black hair, hidden by carefully wound turbans.

Crouching down next to the Indian soldier, I ask, "Can I do something for you?"

He struggles into a half-sitting position, almost hitting his head on the cot above in the process. "Thank you, Memsahib. I am well," he answers in that soft, singing tune I instinctively connect to the Indians. That and the unwavering politeness they all seem to exude.

I survey him a little sceptical, but he meets my eyes, calm and steady. "Alright then. But tell me if I can help you in any way," I order before getting up from the floor again, slowly straightening my aching knees.

They always make me feel sorry for them, those Indian soldiers. They might look different from us, but they, too, are colonials and therefore, share a particular distinction with Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders – they all have been called to arms to defend the British Empire in a strange, far away country. And yet – we're all far from home but how much more hostile must this cold, wet continent feel to the Indians, coming, as they are, from a country bathed in light and warmth?

But maybe that, too, is exemplary for this war. A Canadian nurse in an English ambulance train, travelling through the French countryside, taking care of soldiers from India and the USA. It is almost something of a metaphor for a war that became a _world war_ long ago.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Good-bye-ee!' from 1917 (lyrics and music by R.P. Weston and Bert Lee)._

 _Princess Christian is Princess Helena (1846-1923), third daughter of Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom. She married a German Prince, Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, but the couple resided in England after the marriage. During WW1, Helena, Christian and their two daughters renounced their German titles – the surviving son, however, fought on the Prussian side. Helena was an active member of the Royal Family and often undertook public engagements. She was an advocate for women's suffrage and very interested in nursing. She was involved in the founding of the British Cross and acted as president of the Royal British Nurses' Association, the Army Nursing Reserve as well as the Army Nursing Service. During the Boer War she was also involved in kitting out and dispatching an ambulance train and in WW1, another ambulance train was named for her._


	54. Just a little prayer

_August 1st_ _, 1918  
No. 15 Ambulance Train, France_

 **Just a little prayer**

"Sister!" a loud voice calls from the other side of the carriage.

Impatiently, I brush back my veil and cast a searching look at the private to whom I have just administered analgesics. These bumpy train rides are especially painful for patients with fractures or open wounds.

"Are you alright from here on?" I enquire.

He nods, tries for a smile. "Of course, Ma'am. You can leave me now," he assures and while I regret having to leave him so suddenly, I do as he tells me, reaching for my lamp and turning into the direction from which the voice has called. In this ambulance train, there is simply never enough time to do what should normally be done and especially not in the past two weeks.

It was the middle of July when the news reached us. At first, it was but an ominous whisper, finally made into inked truth by the newspapers' headlines. A new German offensive had carried the enemy forwards over the Marne. The Marne! That magical border of which they say it can never be given up if Paris is meant to be held.

For three endless days, we looked to the east in worry and fear. And then – yes, then history repeated itself. The first Miracle of the Marne was followed by a second one, almost exactly four years later. French and American soldiers gathered for a counter attack and forced the Germans back to the Marne's eastern shore. And not only that, they pushed on, and now, two weeks later, it looks as if they will manage to stabilize the frontline between Soisson and Reims. 'Straightening out the salient', as they say in military speak.

The land taken by the Germans during the fighting of May is mostly back in Allied hands and after four months of bad and worse news that's the first sliver of hope. Even Miller smiled, if despite herself, when the news reached us. But still, we remain cautious. The enemy has proven more than once in the past years that he always has another trick up his sleeve.

Whatever the gains between Marne and Vesle will bring in the long run, however, for us they have mostly meant that we were pulled from our duty of doing runs between coastal hospitals and sent to the south, closer to the fighting. In the past few days we were almost exclusively tasked with bringing patients from Sézanne to Rouen and today, we loaded in Senlis, a small town in the middle of the Chantilly forest, less than 35 miles from the shores of the Marne.

To sum it up: I am exactly where Ken did not want me to be.

He and the other Canadians still remain mostly removed from the heavier fighting. They still hold the frontline close to Arras, familiar to them by now, where it has been remarkably quiet during all these awful weeks. Consequentially, the Canadian Corps has not taken part in a major battle ever since they took Passchendaele last autumn. And while I am ever so grateful for that, I still can't help but wonder when the day will come when some British General remembers that, in addition to the battle-weary British units, he also has the Canadian divisions at his disposal – experienced, strong, rested and well-trained as they are.

It's been a year since the fighting at Ypres began. Back then, the Canadians were brought in to end it. Now, though, they seem almost pre-ordained to begin it – whenever and wherever _it_ may take place in the end.

"Sister!" comes the call again, more urgently this time.

I wipe my hands on my apron, then take hold on one of the bed frames for a moment as the train passes around a corner, before quickly moving over to where the call came from.

"What's the matter?" I query after having arrived.

The man who seems to have called, nods towards the patient sitting next to him. "He's unwell," he informs me curtly.

Raising my lamp, I swing it around into the direction of the other man. It is between two and three in the night, by my guess, and the carriage is dark except for the shine of a handful of lamps.

For the young man whose face is just lit up by my lamp, it doesn't make a difference either way. A thick bandage is wound around his head, hiding both eyes. When the light falls upon him, he gives no sign of being aware of it.

"Hello," I address him carefully. "What's your name?" Procedure says we don't need to know their names but I know nary a nurse who follows procedure in that respect. Names help.

Abruptly, the boy raises his head, moves it from side to side, as if that would enable him to see anything. When he realizes that it doesn't, he lets his head hang again, hiding his face with both hands.

I raise my lamp higher still, look around for a free seat. We have almost 400 patients on board, so are loaded pretty well, but finally, I do spy a free seat, three cots down. "Can you go sit over there?" I ask the man next to the boy.

"Hm. Sure," he hums, before getting up awkwardly and limping off.

I sit down on his old seat, hang up my lamp next to me and gently touch the arm of the boy with the bandage. He jumps, turning his face towards me in reflex.

"Hello," I repeat kindly. "Do you want to tell me your name?"

"Paddy," he murmurs hoarsely, "Paddy O'Mulligan." His accent reliably identifies him as Irish, and his name only serves to back it up.

"Hello Paddy. I am Sister Blythe," I introduce myself. Normally, I would address him using his last name, as we do with all our patients, but once in a while you encounter one who doesn't want to be a surname. Paddy seems the type to me. They are, at any rate, often very young and almost always absolutely helpless.

"Evening, Sister," Paddy greets, the picture of good behaviour. He head still swings lightly from side to side, as if he was desperately looking for a way to finally _see_.

I, meanwhile, have just discovered his Field Medical Card. "If it's alright with you, I will now take the card tied to your collar," I inform him of my next action. Paddy nods silently.

As I skim the information jotted down on the card in different hands, my heart grows heavy. A grenade splinter has injured both of his eyes. They took one eye out in the CCS already and it seems to be a bit of a toss-up whether the other eyeball can be saved. Even then, he won't ever see with it again. His sight, either way, is lost forever.

"Is it very bad, Sister?" Paddy asks quietly. I look up from the card, into his half-bandaged face and don't know what to say. I have told men that they will never walk again, have even informed some of them that they are sure to die, but this… I have no idea how to tell him this.

Paddy, however, interprets my silence all on his own. "It's alright, Sister. I already did think it is probably bad," he assures. And then, inexplicably, I see him fight for a smile. Weak and wavering and shaky as it is, it is still a smile.

I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat sits fast.

The worst thing, the very, very worst thing, is to see how brave they are still. Even when I want to cry and scream at and curse Walter's God, they still find the strength somewhere for a smile, a polite word, a hopeful request. There's nothing in this world to teach one humbleness as reliably as the sight of these wonderful, tragic, brave boys.

"Do you know, Sister, I think I wouldn't mind quite so much if it weren't so very dark," Paddy continues. "If I had just one small light, it would not be quite so hard." His voice shakes and his hands clench, but he keeps the smile on his lips and his head raised.

"Then you will need to find a light within yourself, Paddy O'Mulligan," I reply, my voice not quite sounding like my own. Following instinct, I raise my hand and lightly touch my fingertips to where his heart beats.

When my hand sinks down again, Paddy raises his own, touches the same spot. It is hard to say what he is thinking. A pause, then is asks, "Do you really think there is a light here, Sister? I wasn't always… _good_ , you know?"

"No one is. What matters is that we try," I answer quietly. "And besides… I'm sure there's a light there." And I truly am. I am very, very certain.

Paddy nods slowly. "Then I'll believe it as well," he says and it sounds like an oath.

For a moment I look at him and feel my throat tighten. He believes because he believes _me_. And that's even though I have not earned his faith at all.

"May I… may I ask you something, Sister?" comes Paddy's hesitant voice after some moments.

I nod before I remember that he will never be able to see this again. "Of course you may," I therefore answer out loud.

Another pause, as Paddy gathers his courage to ask, "I'm sure you have a sweetheart… right?"

"Yes," I reply simply. If Paddy hadn't already stirred up something within me, the mention of Ken alone would certainly have succeeded in making me fight for my composure. I clench my hands into fists, burrowing my fingernails into the palms. The pain helps a little.

"If your… if he came back like… well, like me… would you still love him?" Paddy continues, almost faltering as he speaks.

Then, before I even get an opportunity to answer, he turns abruptly, hiding his face with both hands. "I am sorry, Sister," he murmurs through his fingers. "I shouldn't ask you that. It's unseemly. Please forget it!"

I open my fists. Cautiously, I stretch out my hands, to gently remove Paddy's hands from his face and turn his head towards me once more. "I don't know how not to love him," I confess.

His head moves twice from side to side and I know how he longs to see my face, to see if I mean the words the way I said them. Instead, I squeeze his hands for a moment. I don't have any other way to reassure him.

A slow, grateful smile spreads over Paddy's face. "But… but wouldn't he feel guilty? Wouldn't he want you to find another man who could offer you much more?" he nevertheless asks. The words still come only hesitantly, but that's not due to worry over the decency of our conversation anymore but because Paddy O'Mulligan is just turning his innermost feelings to the outside.

"Oh, he'd want that for sure. He can be quite the clod, to be honest," I answer, coaxing another smile from Paddy in the process.

"But I wouldn't listen and most of the women I know wouldn't either," I add, my voice quiet but steady. "When you love someone, you love them as they are. And when they change, you love them that way instead. Now, I know that you soldiers always want to be very brave and knightly and noble indeed, but you also have to learn to trust in us fair maidens sometimes. As a rule, we have a pretty good idea of what we want."

" _That_ I know," nods Paddy with sudden fervour. "My Da always used to say that there's no use arguing with a woman. She always gets her will in the end, either way. And my Da was _right_."

A smile steals onto my lips at his words. "There you go. Just trust her. If she truly loves you, she will just be glad to have you back."

Paddy nods, slowly at first and then with ever more conviction. And I sit next to him, hold his clammy hand and silently pray that I might be right. That his sweetheart truly does love him enough to continue loving him. Because he wouldn't be the first soldier robbed of his girl by the war and perhaps it is wrong of me to raise his hopes like this. But on the other hand… maybe that's a truth for another hour anyway. An hour that isn't as dark and oppressing as this one. And hour with more light.

"Well, Molly always did say she liked to hear me sing," Paddy admits slowly, "And I don't need to see to be able to sing, do I, Ma'am?"

"No, certainly not," I assure gently. A moment, before I add, "Would you sing for me as well if I asked you to?"

Paddy turns his head, as if trying to look around the carriage. "But won't the others laugh?" he asks quietly.

"Oh, I'd like to see them _dare_!" I retort in my best strict sister's voice, causing Paddy to laugh softly.

"Then I will sing for you," he announces, suddenly sounding much surer.

A moment passes, during which Paddy seems to gather himself. When he raises his voice, it floats clear and shining through the darkness.

 _Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún_  
 _Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin_  
 _Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom_  
 _Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán._

I don't understand the Gaelic words, but the sound of them and the sound of his voice are enough to send a shiver down my spine. And, one after the other, the other men in the carriage fall silent as well. Before Paddy has reached the second stanza, they are completely quiet. His voice is the only sound to be heard in the waggon.

When he finally ends, there's a moment of total silence. I squeeze Paddy's hand, before wiping a single tear out of the corner of my eye. "Thank you," I whisper.

A smile blossoms on Paddy's face. "Did you like it?" he asks enthusiastically.

"It was beautiful," I answer truthfully.

"It is one of my favourite songs. It's about a woman whose sweetheart goes to France to fight a war, and she promises to wait for him," Paddy explains.

How fitting.

I swallow hard.

"The words… what do they mean?" I finally ask.

Paddy inclines his head thoughtfully before giving me a translation.

 _Go, go, go my love_  
 _Go quietly and go peacefully_  
 _Go to the door and fly with me_  
 _And may you go safely, my darling_

It sounds as if a farewell for good.

I want to say something but don't trust my voice to speak. So I squeeze Paddy's hand once more and hope the he will understand. A moment, then he returns the squeeze.

One or two seconds pass in silence. The sudden bang ripping through it sounds even louder for it. Abruptly, I turn around.

One of my orderlies stands in the doorway leading to my second ward car, searching this carriage frantically with his eyes. "Sister Blythe?" he calls out. "You need to come quickly!"

I am on my feet immediately, but take a second to turn towards Paddy for one last time. "Do you promise me not to lose faith?" I ask him.

Paddy shakes his head. "I won't Ma'am," he promises. "I thank you for being there for me. And… may God bless you."

Quickly, I touch his shoulder in farewell, take hold of my lamp and turn away for good. But even as I hurry along the aisle, towards the impatiently waiting orderly, I send a quick prayer to whichever power is willing to listen, asking it to protect this brave little Irish boy.

My orderly is already holding the door open for me and as I reach him, it's the anxious, restless look in his eyes that warns me to what lays ahead. I take a second to collect myself and brush off that curious mood Paddy and his Gaelic song have put me in. When I have myself back under control, I slip past the orderly and climb over into the second ward car.

There's no more light here than there was in the other one, but still I immediately see a commotion in the half-way along the aisle. When I have finally reached it, one look is enough to get an idea of the situation.

A young English private lies in one of the middle cots, his face pale in the light beam of my lamp, his uniform dark and stained. Next to him stands another man, holding tightly onto the lying man's hand and looking down at him with eyes full of panic. It takes several seconds for him to notice me and turn his anguished gaze on me instead. "You need to help him, Sister," he pleads.

"Get Dr Hunter," I murmur in the direction of the orderly who immediately melts into the darkness of the waggon.

Ignoring the soldier nervously wringing his hands for a moment, I bend lower over the patient in the middle cot. With an experienced gaze and practiced fingers, I examine him quickly.

The other man makes a choked sound. I can feel his burning eyes boring into me. "Are you friends?" I ask without turning around. In my experience, it helps to get them talking. They don't lose their nerves as easily when they can talk.

"Brothers, Ma'am", he answers. Another choking sound. It sounds like a sob.

The blood leaks from a wound to the abdomen. Carefully, I move my hand lower and feel more wetness than I would like. I am quite certain that only the darkness hides how quickly the blood is trickling out of the man's body.

"Who's the older one?" I direct the next question at the brother. It doesn't matter what I say, as long as I keep him talking.

"He is, by two years," comes the answer after a moment of hesitation, "But we've always done everything together."

I raise my lamp so that the light falls onto the patient's face. He can't be much older than twenty. The paleness of his skin is waxen and grey. He isn't dead yet, but he looks like he is. His skin, too, is already cool to the touch.

"Tell me about him," I ask of the brother, only listening with half an ear. The rest of me is firmly concentrating on my patient.

An audible gulp before the younger brother starts talking haltingly, "We volunteered together. Pete waited for me. He always looked out for me. We haven't been out here long. I didn't think it would be like this, but Pete said we need to make fast work of it. I tried to be brave." A sniffling sound.

Pulse too weak, breathing too flat.

"I'm sure you were brave," I assure the brother absent-mindedly, while pulling up the blanket from the foot of the bed. I ball it into a tight bundle and press it down onto poor Pete's abdomen, holding it there with one hand. The other hand reaches down, blindly groping for the blanket of the man in the cot below. Seconds pass, then I feel someone press the blanket between my fingers.

"Thanks," I murmur downwards.

The brother moves his head abruptly and I quickly look over to him while I press down the second blanket on the wound as well. There's panic in his eyes.

"What happened then?" I ask. I have to keep him with me.

"We had to attack," he stammers. "Pete told me to stay close to him. I – I don't know what happened. It was so loud and then I was on the ground and it _hurt_. Pete stayed with me until one of the medics came and then he continued to stay with me. Only – when the medic had finished treating me, Pete suddenly fell over and… he bled horribly, Ma'am. The medic dressed the wound and Pete said everything would be alright. He said we'd stick together. He promised!" His voice raises into a desperate wail. A sob, then another one.

Somehow, I am certain that Pete has never yet broken a promise he made to his younger brother. And I know with equal certainty that he won't be able to keep this very last promise.

My eyes move over to Pete's face and I flinch when I notice tired, dark eyes looking back at me. I didn't think him conscious anymore. He holds my gaze for a moment. I see resignation there, sadness, but also acceptance. Pete knows he is dying. Knew it, perhaps, from the moment when he made the medic treat his brother first.

Even at the very end, he still looked out for his little brother and he will pay the highest price for it. He doesn't look as if he regrets it.

"You're just too slow, Olli," murmurs Pete, his voice so hoarse and quiet as to be almost inaudible, "I beat you again." With much effort, he forms his lips into a grin.

Olli moves a hand, as if trying to hold onto him, but in that moment Pete's body already tenses. A squall of blood drenches the blanket beneath my hands. Pete's eyes roll into the back of his head, his body spasms, shoulders raising and falling down again. A last gasp, then he lies still. On his lips, the grin is forever frozen.

 _And may you go safely, my darling_

For several seconds, Olli appears frozen as well, eyes opened wide and fixed on his brother who ought to have stayed with him and left him anyway. I look over to him, sighing softly as I loosen the hold my cramped hands still have on the blankets. Abruptly, Olli turns his head, sees my blood-smeared hands in the light of the lamp and that is enough to break his stillness.

A sound is ripped from his throat, a sound I didn't know a human could produce. It makes me shiver. Then, very suddenly, Olli throws himself forward, towards his brother's body. Instinctively, I reach out my arms, trying to stop him, but somebody is already pulling him back. I raise my head and recognize Dr Hunter who is holding onto the raging Olli with more strength than I thought he possessed.

Dr Hunter looks past Olli, taking the situation in. His eyes meet mine and he nods, very calmly. I know what he's trying to convey. He wants me to know that I did everything in my power. And yet, it doesn't feel like it. To do more might not have been possible, but it still isn't enough.

"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away," murmurs Dr Hunter, looking down at Pete with sorrowful eyes.

 _Blessed be the name of the Lord._

I think I'm going to be sick.

Olli hides his face in his hands. The tension leaves his body and Dr Hunter cautiously lets of him. He doesn't fight it. He is all out of strength. Instead, there's a whimper, rising into a sob.

I take a step towards him. Gently, I put my arms around his shivering body, pulling his head down onto my shoulder and hold him as he cries. The slowly drying blood of his brother still sticks to my hands.

The train window mirrors us. Behind it, there's just a dark, bottomless, seemingly never-ending nothingness. Suddenly, it frightens me.

When, oh _when_ will this night finally be over?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'A mother's prayer for her boy out there' from 1918 (lyrics by Andrew B. Sterling, music by Arthur Lange)._

' _Siúil A Rúin' is a Gaelic folk song, probably from the 19_ _th_ _century._

 _The Bible quote is taken from Job 1:21._


	55. All this was gallant to be seen

_August 25_ _th_ _, 1918  
Vecquemont, France – Villers-Bretonneux, France_

 **All this was gallant to be seen**

I close my letter to Shirley and put it on a small stack of finished letters, already including those to Ken, Colette, Mum and Dad.

The British Army Postal Service struggles not a little bit the get our letters sent after the train. Often enough, we don't get any mail for days, only to be then handed a whole bundle of it the next time we stop. Some letters take mere days to reach us, others are sent on any odyssey throughout France beforehand. Yesterday though, we were in Le Havre, and, accordingly, my haul is nothing to snub at.

I reach for the two letters that have yet to be answered and ponder whether to write first to Faith or to Persis, when the door to our mess cabin is ripped open to reveal Miller.

"Good morning", I greet kindly and have to suppress a smile at the sight of her, all rumpled and crinkly. Miller is no morning person.

"Morning," Miller grunts back and throws herself down on the bench seat. "How long have you been up?" she asks, eyeing my pile of letters.

"Hmm… two or three hours?" I guess. "Since half past four, I think. I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I'm afraid I will never have a proper sleep cycle ever again."

We sleep when we have the opportunity to do so, and we only get opportunity when we have no patients on board. Whenever the train is empty, we sleep, be it noon or midnight, brightest day or deepest night. Whether day or night, I can only tell nowadays by looking out of the train window anyway. My sense of time left me weeks ago.

Miller pulls a sympathetic face. "We're almost there," she remarks. "Dr Hunter told me."

"Oh? Did he also tell you where we're actually going?" I ask, because we usually only learn our exact destination shortly before arrival.

Miller rolls her eyes. "Vecquemont. Again", she retorts.

Vecquemont is a tiny village to the east of Amiens, where they set up several CCS after the last battles. We already picked up patients there the day before yesterday and therefore, I know very well what has caused Miller's eye roll. There's simply nothing to do in Vecquemont! Often, several hours pass between our arrival and the loading of the patients, and thus, it is much preferable to us when we stop somewhere where we can take a stroll or get some shopping done. Le Havre and Rouen do offer plenty such opportunities and during a halt in Étaples some time ago I was even able to surprise Persis and Tim. In Vecquemont, however, there is about nothing to do but to while away the time.

"I'm sure we'll find a way to keep ourselves occupied," I announce with more optimism than I feel while collecting my letters. Persis and Faith will have to wait.

Miller snorts in disbelief. "How so?" she demands to know.

I raise my shoulders in a shrug. "If all else fails, we can ask in one of the CCS if we can lend them a hand?" I suggest.

This, at least, serves to coax a loud laugh from Miller. "You're unbelievable, Blythe!" she announces. "As if we weren't already working hard enough!"

"At least it would be something to do," I defend myself, feeling a little embarrassed.

My colleague, however, just shakes her head decidedly. "And let the English nurses treat us as if we're liable to throttle their patient at any second, seeing as we're only unwashed savages from the colonies? Thanks, but I'll pass," she remarks drily.

She has a point, I have to give her that. The great majority of English nurses are quite alright, but there are also those among them who are very reluctant to admit that we Canadians possess even the tiniest bit of competence. We're colonials and in the eyes of some English nurses, we are unfit to keep up with the high standard of the British motherland. Those two stars on our shoulders and our significantly higher earnings do not help either in getting them to view us with more benevolence.

"I once got asked by an English nurse if we had ever heard about the difference between antiseptic and aseptic in Canada," I tell Miller and have to bite back a smile at the memory.

Miller eyes me curiously. "And what did you answer?"

"Well… I explained to her that we don't take that as seriously. A little bit of dirt has never yet harmed anyone after all, and those that die of it anyway were obviously simply not fit to survive the Canadian wilderness. Natural selection and all that. You should have seen her _face_!" I have to giggle as I remember the consternated look of the English sister.

Miller smirks. "If she was foolish enough to believe that nonsense, she didn't deserve any better," she decides, sounding very pleased.

With a shudder and a screaming sound, the train chooses that moment to come to a halt. I cast one look out of the window before getting up. "Next stop: Vecquemont" I announce in my best conductor's voice and laugh at Miller's withering glare.

I leave Miller behind in the cabin to glower some more, and find my way onto the platform instead, which is still almost devoid of people this early on the morning. The air, however, is as warm as can be expected in late August and I decide to take the opportunity to stretch my legs a little. A little further down the platform I spy Matron White and Dr Hunter in conversation with two young, awfully posh looking lieutenants. When the matron notices me, she motions for me to come closer and, curiously, I do so.

"Miss Blythe, these are Lieutenant Stowe and Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion", Matron White introduces the two officers.

Mutely, I blink at Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion. How can any person be _called_ that?

"The lieutenants are attached to Fourth Army Headquarters," Matron continues in her matter-of-fact way. "They have offered to accompany you and Miss Miller to Amiens today. We won't start loading patients until late in the afternoon at the earliest."

"That is, if you and Miss Miller want to drive to Amiens at all," Dr Hunter adds with a kind smile. The two lieutenants, meanwhile, remain politely silent, but I can feel them looking at me with interest.

Truth to be told, I wouldn't have minded spending my day writing letters and reading and maybe taking a nice nap, but I can imagine _very well_ what Miller would have to say to me if I were to decline this particular offer, so I nod.

My nod, slight and unwilling as it may have been, decides it and so it doesn't take long for Miller and me to take our places in the back of a very fancy, open-topped automobile, which Lieutenant Stowe then proceeds to steer through the Picard countryside with a surprisingly steady touch.

"Do the ladies have a wish as to what they want to see in Amiens?" asks Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion while turning around towards us, one arm slung casually over the backrest of his seat. I frown slightly. There's something about him that irritates me, though I can't quite put my finger on what it is.

Miller just shrugs, clearly unimpressed. "What would the lieutenant recommend?" she returns the question and I'm fairly sure the lieutenant doesn't even realize he's being made fun of.

"I would recommend a visit to the cathedral. You must have heard of the _Weeping Angel of Amiens_ , surely?" says Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion, raising both eyebrows in question.

Miller, in turn, raises her own eyebrows to mirror him. "You're talking about that hideously ugly putto that they have printed on postcards with such frequency in the past years that the only possible explanation for it is a collective lapse of taste?" she retorts sharply. "Thank you, but no. We've already had the pleasure."

The lieutenant just stares at her, obviously speechless. I, meanwhile, suppress a grin. We stopped in Amiens proper some days ago and Miller and I did indeed go to see the cathedral then. Miller had no kinder words for the angel sculpture then than she did just now.

"Not the cathedral then", Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion murmurs finally before turning back to the front of the car. Miller has evidently robbed him of his words, which she is well aware of, seeing as she is just now winking at me in amusement. I smile back at her.

I have no qualms admitting that I have grown very fond of Miller in the past two months. She can be very… straightforward sometimes, but she doesn't allow me to brood too much and that's important because brooding has become second nature to me (as fifteen-year old me would be shocked to hear). How much Miller supports me became strikingly clear back when we were parked in Creil and news of the Battle of Amiens reached us.

What I had feared has come to pass. The generals remembered the Canadian troops and brought them in so that they could spearhead a major attack alongside the Australians. The colonial troops, called in to accomplish where the motherland had failed. There would be a poetic irony to it, if it weren't so dreadful in every other sense.

And they delivered, the boys from the colonies. It was a great victory, carrying our troops many miles to the east, close to the old lines of 1916, undoing at least in part the enemy's land gains of those awful weeks in March. It was the greatest success in many, many months and it was impossible to miss how news of it served to kindle a new flame of hope in the people around me.

I, however, was filled with nothing but fearful dread. For the knowledge that the Canadian Crops had attacked brought with it the realization that three of the men I love most in the world were involved in the fighting. Shirley, digging trenches and restoring streets and building bridges, ever under fire. Walter, everywhere, even right in the thick of things, in an attempt to comfort and console the soldiers around him. And Ken, leading his men into battle with nary a thought for his own safety.

To sum it up – I was a nervous wreck. If I had thought that Vimy Ridge or Passchendaele would have been enough to prepare me for what I was to feel in the days of Amiens, I couldn't have been more wrong. Maybe there's nothing that could have prepared me. It is just thanks to Miller's steadfastness and the quiet perseverance of Matron that I, stuck in Creil, didn't go stark mad with worry.

When Ken's telegram came through, informing me that he was fine and, as far as he knew, the other two as well, I fell on my knees and cried for minutes. Miller stood next to me, patting my head and murmuring "there, there" and I suppose it's proof of how I must have grown on her as well that she suffered my openly exhibited emotion with such patience.

With a jolt the automobile passes over a bridge, thus jolting me from my thoughts. Absent-mindedly, I look down at the river below us.

"The Somme," Lieutenant Stowe remarks from the front. When I turn my head I see him watching me in the rear mirror. Our eyes meet and he smiles shyly.

It is… curious. The Somme is not a very imposing river. It is wide enough, I suppose, but pretty shallow. It wouldn't be remarkable in any way but for the fact that we humans decided to name one of the largest battles in our history for it. Now the name will be connected with death and suffering and spilt blood for a very long time – and all the while, the river just continues flowing, calmly and patiently as it has always done. The river doesn't mind that we dyed its waters red, but how many generations must pass before people will look at these quiet waters once more without being reminded of the horror we misused its name for?

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion turning around towards us once more. There's a glint in his eyes that is slightly alarming. It reminds me of the day when Jem explained to us the rules of a new game called 'The Burning of a Witch". Di was the witch and the burning part was meant quite literally.

Thank God for Susan, is all I can say.

"If the cathedral is too boring for the ladies, would they consider visiting a trench instead?" the lieutenant suggests and suddenly, I am not quite certain if it weren't better if Susan were here to put her foot down once again.

I mean… a _trench_?

"Are you mad, man?" Lieutenant Stowe asks his fellow officer quietly, but he just grins, obviously unimpressed. When I turn my head to look at Miller, the look on her face is not one of disdain as I had expected. Instead, she almost appears to be… interested?

"Isn't that dangerous?" I ask tentatively. I feel someone should be asking that.

Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion brushes my concern aside with a wave of his hand. "Nonsense! We can't go up front, of course, but we can show you the old trenches alright. They're miles behind the proper frontline. What could possibly happen?"

In the rear mirror, I can see Lieutenant Stowe purse his lips, but he doesn't say anything. I, for my part, am torn. _Of course_ it would interest me to finally see with my own eyes how my husband and my brothers live at the front. As close as we get to all this as nurses, the front itself remains a mystery to us as well. The thought of getting to see it myself is – well, intriguing. But I can also imagine very well what my brothers and my husband would have to say to this.

"Well, Blythe? What do you think?" asks Miller and I know she's leaving the decision up to me.

I take a deep breath. Curiosity and unease pull at me. I would like to see it, if I am being honest. Ken, naturally, would be livid at me even entertaining the thought, as I am well aware, but… on the other hand, no one has ever said that our marriage gives him the right to suddenly decide every one of my steps, right?

Hesitantly, I meet the challenging gaze of Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion. "If it's _really_ not dangerous…" I begin and that decides it.

Lieutenant Stowe turns the automobile without another word and as he gets it moving once more, we have the sun in our eyes. We're driving eastwards.

The farther we come, the fuller the street is. Lorries drive alongside horse-drawn carts, ambulances pass by heavy artillery and in-between, two steady columns of soldiers march on. Those coming into our direction look tired, dirty, some of them even wounded, but regardless of which way they are going, they all share a certain expression in their eyes. It is a kind of wariness, a caginess and something I recognizes as the type of tiredness that makes the bones ache and the mind become indifferent.

Some raise their heads as we pass, but there's not even curiosity registering in their eyes. We don't belong here, Miller and I, but the soldiers don't even seem surprised at our presence. It's as if they have seen too much to even question it. It might be madness, two nurses this close to the front, but they have learned to live with mad orders and know enough to realize the futility of attempting to question it.

The sight of these men makes me realize what irks me about Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion. It's not his self-confidence, not his too casual demeanour, not even his _name_. It's merely that fact that he has never seen what these men see on a daily basis. He's one of the Red Tabs, officers from headquarters, easily recognizable by the red gorget patches and red cap bands they wear, and the truth is that he doesn't belong here anymore than Miller and I do. He's one of those sitting miles behind the lines and moving around tin soldiers on a map.

I wonder if he has a wife. I wonder if she is ashamed of him.

A shadow falls upon me and as I raise my head, I am confronted by a monster that instinctively makes me gasp for air. Seconds later I recognise it as a tank and slowly let go of my breath again. Even with that knowledge, however, I keep my head pulled down slightly between my shoulders when the tank stops next to us. A blockade further forwards on the road forces us into a standstill as well and, as if by magnets, my gaze is drawn towards the dark steel monstrosity, looming just inches away from me. They say that tanks played a pivotal part on the successful battles of the past weeks and yet… there might not be anything else to symbolize the destructiveness of this war as effectively as a tank.

My eyes move along the body of steel, finally fixing on its tracks, a continuous band of treads that moves the tank forward and that crushes everything standing in its way. There's dirt in between the treads and on the side of the tank, dust and lumps of earth and something else that I probably wouldn't have recognized had I not been this close and, at the same time, so awfully experienced in recognizing this substance in particular, be it shockingly red or dried to a rusty brown as it is here.

It's blood. There's blood on the tank's tracks.

I rip my eyes away. I don't, don't, _don't_ want to know how blood got onto this tank. I do _not_ want to know!

A jolt and our automobile starts moving once more, leaving the shadow of the tank. I press a hand to my forehead. I feel sick.

We gather speed once more, but I don't raise my head again. In front of my eyes, the tank keeps appearing, despite how desperately I try to push away the image. I didn't think the sight of blood could serve to shock me ever again and yet… I swallow hard.

For several minutes, we drive on in silence, before Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion loudly announces, "Villers-Bretonneux." Somewhat unwillingly I raise my head, expecting to see a village – and get the second shock of the day.

This is no village. This is a place of ruins.

Not houses but ruins line the wide street, only poorly cleared from stone and rubble. They are half-collapsed, devoid of roofs, the window openings like wounds in broken facades, looming against the sky in bizarre forms. Through holes in the exterior walls, furniture can be seen, belongings, scraps of wallpaper. In the middle of the village, there is a small tower, like the carcass of a tooth, and above it all loom the ruins of what must have once been the church. Not even God's house is safe in this war.

As if through a haze, I hear the voice of our many-named companion. "The Germans attacked here twice in the spring, aiming to fight their way to Amiens, but the Diggers stopped them. Good men, the Diggers, same as your Kanadoos. Fight like devils. That's why we had to bring in the Canadians in secret before the last offensive. Had the _Boches_ realized that we were moving the Canadians into the line right beside the Australians, they would have smelled a rat," he explains, laughing.

Hate bubbles up within me like bile. How dare he laugh, in the face of this destruction? People lived here once. It was their home and now… When I imagine my beloved Glen could ever look like this…

"The trenches from where we started the offensive two weeks ago are over there," the lieutenant continues cheerfully. "They were built rather hastily and besides, the French held this area up until a short while ago, so please don't think all our trenches look like this. Normally, we have up to three trenches behind each other, connected by communication trenches, and everything built very sturdily. Certainly much niftier than anything you will see here. Usually, we try to make the trenches as home-like as possible for the soldiers. They get quite comfortable dug-outs for their relaxation, though you won't see these here."

Instinctively, I search for Miller's gaze. She frowns, softly clicking her tongue. So I'm not the only one struggling to imagine 'comfortable dug-outs' and 'relaxation' on the frontline.

We have left the last ruins of Villers-Bretonneux behind us and Lieutenant Stowe turns the automobile sharply to the right. It's not the muddy No Man's Land of Flanders that surrounds us, but what must have been a peaceful countryside once is riddled by countless of craters. Like pock marks they perforate the meadows and fields.

"The Canadians attacked on this line, on a front of about five miles, stretching between Villers-Bretonneux in the north and Hourges in the south. The Australians were directly to the north of it," Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion states, gesturing to all sides. Then, he elbows our driver into the ribs, demanding, "Stop here, will you?" I think I can see Lieutenant Stowe roll his eyes in the rear mirror, but he stops the automobile on a farm lane, just as ordered.

We climb out of the automobile, with me accepting Lieutenant Stowe's hand gratefully while Miller studiously ignores the hand our other companion offers her. It is quieter here, further from the main road, and we walk over the field quite unhindered. After some yards, Lieutenant Stowe halts suddenly, raising a hand to signal me to stop as well.

If I hadn't known this to be a trench, I probably wouldn't have recognized it. There might be other, _better_ trenches somewhere else – dug deeper, built more sturdily – but this one reminds me more of an irrigation ditch than anything else. I look down its side and am certain that not even I would be able to stand upright in there, it's that shallow. The sides are made of nothing but raw earth, poorly stacked up. The ground isn't paved or even covered, just partly tramped down.

As I look more closely, I can see remnants of life. A crudely timbered ladder leaning against the side of the trench. A forgotten metal bowl on a corner. A piece of cloth, fluttering in the wind. Even a pile of shells, stacked up and forgotten. A shoe sticks out of a small mound of earth not far away. I dare not wonder if the foot is still inside it.

"Do you see the dug-out over there?" Lieutenant Stowe asks quietly, stretching out a hand to point. I follow the gesture with my eyes and yet, I have to take a double-take before I see what he's trying to show me. It's a hole dug into the side of the trench, about three feet high, barely six feet deep, with a thin plate for a roof, to carry the pile of earth above it. I wouldn't keep an animal there, to say nothing of a human, and yet, for some of the soldiers this might have been the only sleeping place they had.

The mere thought of them vegetating for days in these holes, always under fire, the enemy just a few dozen yards away, with Death breathing down their necks… I take a shaky breath.

"The _Boches_ had their trenches over there," Lieutenant Stowe adds, nodding towards the other side of the field. I tear away my eyes from the trench, look at where he indicates. It doesn't seem far enough away to me.

I turn back to the trench and, all of a sudden, I can see shadowy figures there. Men in uniforms, their faces dirty, the eyes tired. Some sit with their backs to the side of the trench, dozing or staring ahead with unseeing eyes. Others scurry about, head bent low. With raw, ghostly voices they call out orders to one another, through the distant explosions of shells and the staccato of the machine gun. When one of the shadow figures suddenly raises his head, I think I know his face, but then there's a gust of wind, blowing away the ghostly figures as fast as they have appeared. The trench is empty once more.

I shiver.

The truth is, I thought I knew a good deal about the soldiers at the front. I thought I knew what their lives are like because I treated their wounds and listened to what they had to say and because I thought my imagination would suffice to picture their reality.

I had no idea.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Greensleeves' from the 16_ _th_ _century, first published in 1580 (source unknown)._


	56. Burdened down with care

_August 25_ _th_ _, 1918  
Dury, France_

 **Burdened down with care**

"When do you intend to tell us where we're going?" Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion enquires, giving Lieutenant Stowe a not-too-light shove.

"When we're there," our driver answers simply, as he steers the automobile around a corner.

After our visit to the old trench, we did drive to Amiens after all. Lieutenant Stowe excused himself for a while, so the rest of us went for an early lunch, which Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion admittedly paid for without question. He also did most of the talking and in consequence, I now know more about polo than I ever needed to. When Lieutenant Stowe returned with a promise of a _totally safe_ surprise, both Miller and I were only to ready to agree to it, if only to escape further polo tales.

We drove southwards from Amiens, crossing the town's borders after several minutes and turning into the main street of a small village. "Dury," informs Lieutenant Stowe.

Dury, there's no denying it, is positively teeming with soldiers. And not just any soldiers – they are soldiers of the Canadian Expeditionary Force! Most of them stand to attention when they notice our automobile, saluting respectfully, but also nudging each other when they notice Miller and me. The braver ones dare a grin or a wink.

"Sister Blythe! Sister Blythe!" I suddenly hear a voice to my left call out. Quickly turning my head, I peer at the khaki-coloured mass and yes, there's a soldier waving both arms in the air and grinning widely at me. I know his face… a former patient perhaps? Narrowing my eyes, I look closer… and isn't that… isn't that _Moustache_?

I rise to my feet to get a better look, but the crowd is already closing around the man, the automobile drives on and he is gone from my sight. Absentmindedly, I register Miller pulling me back down again, but I don't turn around. Instead, my eyes search the soldiers milling along the street. If that was _truly_ Moustache, that would mean… that would mean…

My gaze falls on the regimental patch stitched into the uniform of a private standing at the side of the street. A red rectangle, crowned by a green triangle. And suddenly, my heart is beating in my throat.

Could that mean…? Could it be _possible_ …?

Abruptly, Lieutenant Stowe stops the automobile in front of a building. Removing both hands from the steering wheel, he turns around. I watch him impatiently.

He clears his throat before explaining, "After being informed that your brothers and your fiancé are at the front, I allowed myself to make some inquiries while you ate lunch. The Canadians are currently being transferred once more. I regret to tell you that the Third Division has already left while the Fourth Division is only just in the process of being relieved from frontline duties. Therefore, it won't be possible to go see your brothers. Your fiancé, on the other hand… well, if my information is correct, is in there." He nods at the building.

If possible, my heart beats even faster. Miller gently pats my hand and out of the corner of my eye I can see that her expression is amused but indulgent.

"Is this a good surprise?" Lieutenant Stowe asks with a shy smile, when I don't immediately react.

I nod. Slowly at first, then ever faster. "The best," I assure him, and his smile widens.

You have to hand it to the Red Tabs, although the fighting units don't look upon them with much friendliness, their red patches are excellent door openers. Some hushed words at the front door and it opens invitingly. As does every other door we encounter until we finally reach a rectangular room in which a group of officers has gathered around a table.

Some of them raise their heads when we enter and, upon seeing Miller and me, curiosity registers on their faces. I, however, have not even one look for them. My eyes immediately seek out my husband.

Ken has his back to us, standing slightly bent over the table upon which a map has been spread out. He taps the map twice with one finger, addressing a young lieutenant standing opposite him, "Here, there's Tincques." Instead of looking down at the map though, the lieutenant stares at us, straight past Ken, mouth hanging open.

"Radley!" Ken calls out sharply. The lieutenant blushes and lowers his head. "Apologies, Sir," he murmurs, fixing his eyes on the map in front of him.

Ken, too, moves to turn back to the map, when the major next to him taps him on the shoulder. He was one who noticed our entrance and has been watching me interestedly ever since. I have never seen the man before, but I can't shake the feeling that he has a pretty good idea of who I am.

"Yes?" Ken asks curtly, looking over at him quickly. The major silently nods into our direction. Instead of turning completely, Ken just moves his head a little, just enough so that he can see Lieutenant Stowe, standing as he is a couple of steps ahead of us.

"Headquarters?" Ken enquires, while already turning back around. "Please tell me you have news about that train." He does not sound like he'd kindly accept any other kind of news.

Lieutenant Stowe takes an involuntary step back. "I know nothing about a train, Sir, but…" he splutters.

Ken does not let him finish. "How do you people at Headquarters expect this to work without a train? Am I to make my men march to Tincques?" he growls. "Is it too bloody much to ask for someone to make sure that we can leave on time just _once_?"

The helpless gaze of Lieutenant Stowe meets mine and I just try to think of a way to get myself noticed when the major loudly clears his throat. Might that be Matt Irving?

"What?" Ken asks impatiently.

"Well," the major answers casually, "I might be wrong, but I am reasonably certain that the woman over there is the girl from the picture and I figured that to be of some interest to you?" He grins at me mischievously.

Ken freezes. Then, very slowly, he straightens and turns towards us. His gaze falls on me. His face is very still. I cannot say what he is thinking. "Rilla?" he asks, incredulously.

"Hm – hello?" I reply, trying for a smile. Instinctively, I have crossed my arms, pulled my head a bit lower between my shoulders. Minutes ago, I was deliriously happy at the prospect of seeing Ken again, but now I am suddenly feeling shy. I wonder if he is as happy to see me?

Still with some hesitation, Ken comes closer. There's a deep frown etched on his forehead, and in his eyes, I see confusion and disbelief and something I don't immediately have a name for. Can it be… wariness?

I don't move, despite suddenly feeling very aware of all the eyes in the room. Ken, however, doesn't seem to notice anyone but me. Now that he is closer I can see dark shadows etched on his face. He is pale, thinner than before, and looks terribly tired. Within me, I feel a painful tightening. I hate to see him like this and yet, am completely powerless to change it.

When Ken finally stops – so close that part of me just wants to throw my arms around him – he raises a hand and touches my face, feathery-light. And only now does the frown disappear, do confusion and wariness leave his eyes, almost as if only in touching me he could be convinced that I am truly here.

His gaze turns soft, tender, as his fingertips brush against my face. Impulsively, I reach up, enfold his hand in my own and lean into his touch. Then I turn my head slightly, press a kiss into the palm of his hand. Ken lets go of a long breath.

"What are you doing here?" he asks quietly, his voice tinged with wonder. Our entwined hands sink down between us.

I shrug lightly. "We're parked at Vecquemont but as we're not expecting patients before the evening, these two gentlemen offered to accompany Miller and me to Amiens. We… we had lunch and Lieutenant Stowe learned that your battalion is here and… well, here we are," I explain, stumbling a little over the words.

Ken nods thoughtfully, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see Miller raising both eyebrows in surprise. Quickly, I turn my head away.

Yes, I _know_ it's lying by omission. And I _will_ tell Ken that I stood on the edge of a trench. Only… only I don't think this is the right moment for it. Not here and now, while his officers are watching us, and the shadow of the battle fought still hangs above him. There's nothing to be gained by telling him, of burdening him further, when he already appears so terribly exhausted.

Our new-found escorts, however, seem to have no such qualms. "And before lunch, we visited the trenches from where the last offensive was begun," Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion adds cheerfully. He even appears to be proud of it.

Ken's face freezes. I think I can hear a low groan from somewhere behind him. Maybe Matt Irving?

I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them again, Ken has pulled up the oh-so-familiar mask he puts on to prevent others from seeing what he is feeling. He doesn't quite succeed. His jaw is set, the nostrils slightly flared. His eyes have fixed on Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion.

"And you are?" he asks and on the surface his voice could be considered polite. But I don't miss the strain veiled by forced friendliness and I don't think his officers do either.

"My name is Peregrine Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion," answers the lieutenant proudly, "And this is Bill Stowe."

Ken raises an eyebrow. "Very well, Lieutenant Stowe, Lieutenant Wilmington – may I ask you a question?"

Were the situation not so awfully muddled, I would admire how effectively he put the pompous young lieutenant in his place, by refusing to call him that absurdly long name. For it doesn't matter how blue-blooded he is, we are in a place where the standing of a man is counted in the amount of brass on his shoulders and the orders on his chest. Of both, Ken has more than the two lieutenants together.

"Certainly, Sir," assures Lieutenant Stowe hurriedly. I think he has a better grasp of how the situation is threatening to unravel than Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion, who even has the nerve to look put out at the shortening of his name.

Ken nods slowly. "Alright. In that case, would you please explain to me _what the hell you were thinking_?" He starts out calmly and politely, but by the time he finishes the question, his voice is thundering. Miller takes a step back and even I duck my head slightly. The lieutenants share a startled look.

"Sir?" murmurs Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion, suddenly not so sure of himself anymore.

"I am asking what you were thinking? Bringing two women so close to the front." Ken repeats, not sounding much friendlier than before. "And you have exactly thirty seconds to give me a plausible answer, or else you can be sure that Headquarters will be informed of this."

Both lieutenants blanch at his words and for a moment, that makes me wonder, but then I realize. It's a common form of punishment to transfer a soldier from a cushy Headquarters job to a fighting unit up at the front line. If Ken makes real on his threat, they'll get to know the trenches much better than they ever feared.

Only… I can't let that happen, can I? The suggestion was theirs, but I made the final decision. I won't let them suffer for something I decided. Not when there's such a high price to be paid.

"Ken," I therefore pipe up, my voice sounding more timid than I would like. His reaction is, accordingly, entirely unsatisfactory. He does squeeze my hand for a second but keeps his eyes locked on the two lieutenants.

"Ken!" I repeat with more force. He looks down at me somewhat testily. "Do you suppose we might be able to talk privately?" I ask once I am sure of his attention.

For a moment, I think he will refuse, but he must have seen something in my expression to make him realize that I am serious. With an inaudible sigh, he nods slightly, pointing to a door at the other side of the room. Before I turn, I catch him casting one last glowering look in the direction of the lieutenants, then exchanging a curt nod with the major.

When we have entered the side room, I move to close the door, but Ken shakes his head. "Think of your colleague," he says quietly, and I abruptly let go of the door knob again. He is right – we nurses must always be above any suspicion and we can be that only when we're never alone. Miller, in contrast to me, has no marriage certificate to show, should doubts arise. That she is in her late twenties and happily unattached, doesn't count for anything.

With one hand at the small of my back, Ken steers me to the furthest part of the room. Here, we are at least safe from curious glances, thought the voices from the next room still quietly carry over.

"Alright. Let's talk," Ken remarks, closing his eyes for a moment. It pains me even more, having to burden him with this, when I see how tired he already is.

He opens his eyes once more, looking at me expectantly, and I find I have no words. My _mind_ is filled to the brim with words that I could use to explain it all, but none of them find their way out. So, I just stand there, mutely, and watch him grow impatient.

Truth to be told, he is a little intimidating right now. Naturally, I realized that _my_ Ken, with whom I spent those magical two weeks in Brittany and in whose arms, I found a world just for the two of us; could not be the same Ken who is commanding a battalion, giving orders to hundreds of soldiers and leading them into battle. Here, in this place, he is Colonel Ford before he is my husband and to see him like this makes me feel unsettled. It's the posture – taller, stiffer, more reserved – but even more than that it's his expression. He seems harder, more unrelenting, and I can't say how much of that is directed at me as well.

Ken sighs and then, as if sensing my discomfort, takes my hand, closing his fingers around mine. Instantly, I feel myself grow calmer. "Do you want to tell me what you were thinking, going there?" he asks, voice kinder now.

Helplessly, I raise my shoulders. "I don't know. It was… I think I just wanted to see what it looked like, this place where you and Walter and Shirley spend such a major part of your lives. I couldn't imagine it, not _really_ and… I thought if I only saw it, maybe I could understand you a bit better and… support you more as well?" I try to explain.

Slowly, Ken nods. "I can understand that. Your intention is certainly honourable, even if it was completely foolish of the four of you to go there. That none of you realized how _dangerous_ it was…" he lets the sentence hang, shaking his head incredulously.

Frowning, I look at him. There's something about the way he just said that that I don't care for at all. "According to Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion, it wasn't that dangerous. He said the front was many miles to the east," I point out, tilting my chin forward slightly.

" _Lieutenant Wilmington-Conyers-Trevanion_ said that, yes? And would you be so gracious as to tell me why you trust his judgement over mine?" Ken shoots back immediately. His voice isn't kind anymore.

I open my mouth to reply, then shut it with a clank. That hit home.

Ken lets go of my hand, takes a couple of steps before stopping, his back to me. When he finally turns, his face is blank. "You will not do anything like this ever again, Rilla. Have I made myself clear?" he asks coolly, raising an eyebrow.

Incredulous, I gasp for air. How _dare_ he? "What did you say?" I manage to choke out.

"I expect you to make sure that nothing like this will ever happen again," Ken repeats curtly.

For a moment, I stare at him, struck mute. My hands shake from suppressed fury. "It might have escaped your notice, but I am not one of your soldiers you can order around," I hiss. "Nor am I a child, to be told what it ought to do or not." I swear, if he says I'm behaving like one, I will leave this room right this instant!

He, however, doesn't say anything. We stand opposite one another, silently glowering. He stiffly and motionless, I with my chin tilted forward and my arms crossed in front of my chest. Three yards of ground separate us but right now, they might as well be an abyss and the realization makes a sharp pain shoot through my heart. How did we get here?

"When I was in your hospital – did I ever tell you what to do?" Ken suddenly asks abruptly.

Confused, I blink at him. "What? No, but –" I start, but get no further.

"No, I didn't," Ken confirms, voice composed. "Because it was your realm and I have respect for your expertise. I am only asking you for the same courtesy in this matter. This is _my_ world. I know so much more about the dangers this close to the front than you or that snotty lieutenant. Do you think you can accept that?"

"Of course," I nod, "but –" Once more, he interrupts me.

"It is correct to say that the current frontline is several miles from the trenches they showed you. But I have to inform you that we took the majority of those miles in just two days – it's not really that far, after all. And that the Germans are capable of equal land gains they have impressively shown us several times this past spring," he reminds me matter-of-factly. "What would you have done if they had mounted a counterattack?"

"We would have driven back," I answer impatiently. "But I really don't see –" This time, I interrupt myself when Ken laughs, quietly and bleakly.

"I love you Rilla and you are a wonderful nurse, but you really know nothing about war," he remarks, sounding tired all of a sudden. "When there's fighting going on, no one just drives anywhere. You can't imagine the chaos! Do you want me to tell you how it was on the first day of the offensive? For several hours, I had no idea where two of my companies where. That's half of my men, just disappeared into the mist. And when they turned back up, the better part of the other two companies was gone. And that was during an attack, when in theory, everyone knew where they were supposed to be. Now, if a couple of hundred men can disappear under those circumstances, how easy do you think it is for two nurses to get lost during a counter attack? And that's quite apart from the fact that the old trenches and battle fields are still strewn with unexploded grenades and live munition. Even without a counter attack, your little trip wasn't that harmless after all."

I look at him, silent. I have nothing to say. Shivering, I pull up my shoulders.

Ken nods, very slightly, before crossing the ground separating us and gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. My eyes flutter shut of their own accord as I lean into the touch.

"I apologize for my choice of words. But when I ask you not to do that again, I don't do it because I don't respect you, but because it's very dangerous. You have no way of knowing this because – and thank God for that – you have no experience of this side of war. I, on the other hand, know more than enough about it. Do you think you can trust my judgement on this?" he asks. His voice is as soft as his gaze is.

My throat, however, feels constricted. I couldn't speak if I wanted to. So, I answer in the only way I can. With a strangled little sound that might have been a sob, I throw my arms around his neck, press my face into his chest.

Without even a second of hesitation, Ken's arms close around me. His hand strokes my back and only when he starts making soft "sh, sh" sounds do I realize that I am crying. I lean back a little, just far enough so I can look at him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, blinking away tears. "I didn't know… I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Ken shakes his head slightly. "It's alright," he murmurs. "You're alright." Then, suddenly, his gaze darts downwards, so quickly I almost miss it, and at first, I don't know what it could mean but then…

Slowly, I let go of a breath before shaking my head as well. "No. I'm sorry. It's not… I'm not…" I make a slightly motion of the hand, to replace the word I cannot speak. "I wouldn't be here if I were. I promised you, after all."

What I do not say is that, on the day I could finally be sure, I locked myself in the linen room of the train and cried for half an hour. Part of me was certainly relieved but the other part… the other part felt the same kind of regret I now see flickers over Ken's face, before he has his expression under control again.

"I thought as much," he replies, evidently pushing the feelings away. "Though… do you suppose I could ask you for yet another promise?"

"Anything," I answer without a second of hesitation. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards in amusement and I, too, have to laugh softly when I realize that I might have been a _little_ hasty just there.

"In that case – no more foolish excursions, yes?" Ken asks. He is smiling in earnest now and his eyes are tender.

I nod. "No more foolish excursion," I promise.

"Great. Then we won't speak of it again," Ken responds.

And then he kisses me, gently and sincerely, and we don't talk much at all after that. We just stand there, almost motionless, drowning into each other and relishing the unexpected and yet much too short time we have together. When, finally, Ken's major gently knocks on the doorframe and tells us it is time for me to leave, the thought of letting go of him seems so absurd that I almost want to refuse.

Instead, I kiss him one last time, almost desperately, and wonder silently how many more of these partings I will be able to bear.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When I leave the world behind' from 1915 (lyrics and music by Irving Berlin)._

* * *

 _A/N: I don't normally do author's notes, but I want to take this opportunity to voice my heartfelt thanks to the lovely_ Anne O' The Island _who kindly sacrificed her time to beta-read this story up until this point, as well as the amazing_ oz diva _who graciously agreed to beta-read the rest of it at very short notice. Many, many thanks to you both - with chocolate sprinkles on top! ;)_


	57. A rope made of heather

_September 7_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 15 Ambulance Train, France_

 **A rope made of heather**

"Here, hold this," I order and slide a thermometer between the private's lips.

Our train is, once more, filled almost to capacity, with 320 patients, most of them stretcher cases. The work, accordingly, is as exhausting as ever, but the past few weeks have done a lot to lift the leaden wariness that had come over all of us in the spring. It might still be a fickle hope but when August turned into September it looked, for the first time in a very long time, as if the war might turn in our favour yet.

Our soldiers succeeded in carrying forward the momentum brought by the Battle of Amiens. In August, Albert and Bapaume fell back into Allied hands, followed by the Australians re-capturing Péronne and the Mont St. Quentin. The gains made by the Germans in March along the Somme have, finally, been made void. Further to the north, near Arras, the Canadian troops broke through the German defences along the Scarpe before turning to a sliver of land between the towns of Drocourt and Quéant.

It is here that the Germans have, in the past two years, established the northernmost part of a defensive system we call the Hindenburg Line, snaking southwards from Amiens. They said the Hindenburg Line had to be taken if we are to win this war and at the same time, they said it was impossible to take. Well – they said the same thing about Vimy Ridge and as they did back then, the Canadians have once again done the impossible. Five days ago, they broke through the Hindenburg Line that had been thought to be unbreakable.

There was a price to be paid and pay it they did. The wounded being carried westwards in our train are the most visible sign of _how high_ the price was. And yet, something differs from the equally costly battles of spring. Back then, the soldiers had a strange look in their eyes – they were broken, defeated. Now though, as terrible as the losses are, there's hope and relief and yes, also pride in their eyes.

It's these same feelings, treacherous as they might be, that also make the work easier for us. The days haven't become shorter, the work not less strenuous, but the heaviness of the impending loss has lifted from our limbs and that alone is worth an awful lot.

Additionally, and more pragmatically, we were parked in Ligny, a village to the west of Arras, all throughout the last night, and got a good night's rest out of it. For this is something else that has changed – I sleep better than I did last spring. Not when the Canadians are in action – poor Miller has her hands full to get me to rest during those times – but the moment Ken's telegram comes through to tell me that everyone is alright, it immediately improves.

When the dreams returned they were accompanied by nightmares. It isn't often that I wake up drenched in sweat, it's the good dreams that have me waking in the morning with a quiet sort of regret, because it's only reality waiting after all. Falling asleep, such a struggle in Étaples, has also become much easier. I was, paradoxically, already delivered of the procession of the dead by my weeks on the moribund ward, but it took longer to silence the saw. Sometimes I still hear it, quietly and menacingly like a warning, but it has lost some of its fright.

Physically, work on an ambulance train might therefore be as straining as ever, but it's easier to manage with a silver lining gleaming on the horizon.

I take the thermometer from the private's mouth. "100.04 degrees," I announce, quite pleased.

His lips form into a gap-toothed smile, when a sudden cry rips through the silence in the wagon.

Quickly, I turn around and cross the carriage. At the back end sit several walking wounded and it is immediately obvious who amongst them has screamed. He has sunk in on himself, his elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead. Even as I come closer, he suddenly gives a violent jolt, opens his eyes wide and screams a second time, a raw, chopped sound. Then, as suddenly, he falls back into his stupor.

I, too, remain standing in front of him for several seconds, giving him a quick visual check over. A dressing covers his right ear, but I see no other wound. He is a giant of a man, would not be misplaced on a farm or in a factory, but his red shoulder straps tell me that he hasn't seen either in a very long time.

When the first Canadian contingent was sent overseas in 1914, they had differently coloured piping to their shoulder straps according to the branch they belonged to. Blue for infantry, yellow for cavalry, red for artillery and so on. When the second contingent was kitted out, the shoulder straps were changed to a universal khaki, but the Old Originals were permitted to retain their coloured straps as a sign that they have been the first to go – men who experienced the chaos of Valcartier and the mud of Salisbury and who had their baptism of fire and gas at Ypers in April 1915.

"Are you alright?" I ask the man softly and take another step towards him. He, however, just stares vacantly ahead, giving no sign of having heard me at all. So, I stretch out a hand, gently touch his shoulder – and then, everything happens very fast.

An abrupt movement, a giant shadow above me, my head flying to one side, a sharp pain in my cheek. The thermometer slips from my fingers, is crushed by heavy soldier's boots. I am forced back, hitting something hard behind me. The face is very close all of a sudden, grotesquely distorted, eye opened wide, but mad, unseeing. A hand closes around my neck, squeezing, tighter, tighter. I can't breathe, pull and scratch at the hand but its hold does not loosen. I heave and cough, but the hand is relentless. Darkness rises at the edges of my vision but still, the hand squeezes tighter still, and I can't _breathe_ –

And then, suddenly, the hand is gone. I fall to my knees, gasping for air. It hurts to breathe. The world around me moves out of focus, tilting to one side, then to the other. I close my eyes tightly but that only makes it worse, so I quickly open them again. Every breath hurts.

Only vaguely I am aware of my attacker lying on the floor several yards from me. He is thrashing around like some berserker, being held down by three other patients sitting on his chest and legs. Then, moments later, a commotion at the other side of the car. With effort, I turn my head, try to get up from the floor, but two hands press me down again.

Miller.

"Sh, sh, Ford. It's alright. Just stay seated for a moment longer," she murmurs.

Powerless, I let myself sink backwards. For a second, my mind is puzzled by the name she calls me but yes, I remember. She addresses me thusly ever since we have been in Dury. Her reasoning is that I ought to get used to the name already, but we both know she knows more.

Cool fingers stroke my neck. "You'll get some nice bruises out of that," Miller remarks quietly, "And a swollen cheek. Best not let your officer see you that way. I can't imagine he'd like it much." I search her eyes, see an encouraging smile and try to reply but find I can't speak. Not when it is already so bloody painful just to breathe. My throat feels as if its swollen shut.

Raised voices carry over to us and I look past Miller to see their origin. Matron has planted herself in front of Dr Hunter and scolds him, one finger raised high in the air. For a moment, it confuses me but then I catch snatches of what she says – "guarantee their safety", "must not happen again" "lock such patients up" – and maybe she is right. Dr Hunter, at any rate, just stands there with sagging shoulders, clearly abashed. He has never been a match for her.

My gaze travels to the soldier, now lying on the floor motionless, eyes closed. The other patients are standing around him, considering him warily. They saved me, didn't they? Without them…

I want to say something, probably to thank them, but when I open my mouth, I only manage a hoarse, croaking sound. Miller gives me a critical once-over before pulling me to my feet, holding my arm when I sway lightly. "I think you'd better have a look at her, Dr Hunter. Nasty shock, I'd wager, and bruises to the face and neck." she remarks over her shoulder.

Matron clicks her tongue disapprovingly but watches me with concerned eyes. Dr Hunter's expression, too, is one of worry as he hurries over to take my other hand. I allow him and Miller to lead me through various ward cars until we have reached the pharmacy wagon. In the doctors' office, I am made to sit on a chair. Miller strokes my head one last time, then I am alone with a very concerned-looking Dr Hunter.

"May I?" he asks and when I nod, he bends over me and examines my face and neck thoroughly.

When he finally leans back, he announces, "It will hurt for some days, but you are not seriously hurt. Can you speak?"

Can I?

Gathering myself, I take several gulps despite the pain. When I do speak, my voice is hoarse and raw and barely audible. "Why did he do it?"

Dr Hunter sighs. "I can't tell you, but I suppose he suffers from what we used to call shell shock. I am sure he didn't intend to hurt you."

No. Somehow, I didn't think so either.

Thinking back at the still, unseeing eyes of the man, I feel myself shudder. He didn't even notice me. I can't say what it was that he was seeing in that moment, but it wasn't me.

As I think back on the incident, I suddenly remember the red shoulder straps. Frowning, I command my croaky voice to remark, "But he was one of the first contingent. He must have been here for years. How can it be that he… I mean – shouldn't he have gotten used to it by now?"

Dr Hunter inclines his head slightly. "I worked in a special hospital for neurasthenia cases for a while. These are sick men. Some have been robbed of everything by what they suffered at the front, even their own self," he answers slowly. "And one can never be sure what finally triggered it. Many fought bravely for years before something happened that made it unbearable for them. An attack, the death of a friend, their own near-death experience. Sometimes, it's just one grenade too many exploding above their heads."

"My brother-in-law was in such a hospital. In Buxton," I murmur as the unbidden memory of Jerry appears in front of my eyes.

"Is he feeling better?" Dr Hunter asks with sympathy.

I press my lips together before replying curtly, "He was killed in action just weeks after his return to the front." Talking comes a little easier as I get more used to it, at least in a purely physical sense.

What I don't say is how he died, but as I look at Dr Hunter, I have a feeling that he already knows. He even looks as if he wants to say something on the subject, but I don't let him. "Why is it that we don't call it that anymore? Shell shock, I mean?" I ask abruptly instead. I don't want to talk about Jerry anymore and impersonal facts help, as I have learned time and again.

For a moment, Dr Hunter hesitates, regarding me thoughtfully, but then he nods very lightly as if having come to a decision. When he answers, it is matter-of-factly, "In the beginning, there was a wide-spread belief that shell shock was a physical injury. It was believed that the change in behaviour was caused by an injury of the brain, itself caused by the physical shock of an explosion. In some cases that might truly have been the case, but with most of them, it was the mind that was hurt, not the brain. Regrettably, those at the top did not see it this way. Instead, they were increasingly convinced that these men only pretended to be ill or wounded to get out of the frontline."

"And why did they change the name?" I enquire, because I still don't understand.

"They didn't. They just gave out the order that no shell shock diagnosis was to be made close to the front. This is why the patients are _NYD(N)_ now – "not yet diagnosed, nervous'. Once a man has a proper shell shock diagnosis, he has to be treated as one of the war wounded, including being entitled to monetary compensation and a pension. That's why they're interested in keeping the numbers down. In handing diagnosis of nervous cases to specifically trained doctors far from the front, they managed to lower the number of shell shock cases significantly."

I nod slowly. That does make sense, at least in the curious logic of the army. "What do you think? Are they only pretending?" I wonder.

Dr Hunter sighs softly. "What do _you_ think?" he hands me back my question and somehow, that is already an answer in itself.

Yes, maybe some of them are. But the majority of them are like Jerry and that patient just now. Their mind is hurt, as Dr Hunter has called it. It might be the most fitting description I have ever encountered.

"Would you mind waiting here for a while?" asks Dr Hunter now, putting a lid on the previous subject. "I would like to have a look at your neck in a few more minutes, to see whether the swelling is receding."

I cast a sceptical look at the door. "My wards…" I begin.

With a decided shake of the head, Dr Hunter interrupts me. "You won't go back there today either way," he announces. "Matron White would have my head if I permitted you to continue working. She and Miss Miller have taken over your patients for the rest of the journey. Besides, it's not far anymore till Le Tréport."

It is that last sentence, more than anything, that makes me relent. That, and the fact that I don't want to have it on my conscience if Matron White decides to take Dr Hunter's head for contravening her orders. So, I nod my assent and walk over to the window while Dr Hunter sits down at the desk and pulls up a bunch of papers.

With my forehead pressing against the cool glass, I watch the pale afternoon sun shine down on the very familiar Picard countryside. With one hand, I gently touch my neck. It feels sore, but Dr Hunter is likely right when he says there's no lasting damage done. Miller, too, is right to warn me how I intend to inform my husband. Ever since my trip to that trench, I dislike giving him more cause for worry.

With a slight jolt, the train comes to a halt on a side track. In all likelihood, we have to make way for a troop transport once again. Trains with fresh troops are of a much higher importance than those carrying soldiers who are wounded and thus, unfit for action. I straighten and roll my shoulders once or twice, as I let my gaze trawl over the view from the train's window.

Then, suddenly, I start, narrowing my eyes and leaning forwards a little. What on earth…?

Quite by chance, we stopped next to a small copse, on the edge of which I now spy a group of soldiers. So far, that's hardly remarkable. What has aroused my attention is another soldier now being led closer by two of his comrades. He is blindfolded, holding his hands behind his back at a strange angle. The other two lead him over to one of the trees, force him down to his knees and pull his arms backwards, around the tree trunk. As they do it, the other soldiers line up opposite the blindfolded man. Every last one of them, as I now see, carries a rifle.

 _Shot at dawn_. Only it _isn't_ dawn.

"You should not see this," a quiet voice comes from my left. Turning my head, I look at Dr Hunter who is himself looking at the scene in front of us with a deep frown etched on his forehead.

"If I look away, it will still happen, won't it?" I retort. My voice sounds unfamiliar, hoarse and raw and filled with dread.

Dr Hunter nods, sighing. "It will always happen," he confirms.

"But why? What has he done that is so awful that it warrants… _killing_ him?" I clamour. It is the one thing in this war I may have always struggled the most to understand.

"Those in command consider these executions necessary to keep control of the soldiers," Dr Hunter explains. "There are other punishments for less serious crimes and when a death penalty _is_ handed out, it is often suspended or transformed into hard labour, or so I have been told. But when it is enforced, it is meant less as punishment than as a form of deterrent for the rest of the men. Some people up high believe that only the ever-present threat of such an execution keeps the soldiers from deserting in droves."

"The Australians don't execute anyone and yet, are known as one of the best units we have," I argue. "How do the top brass people explain that?"

Silently, Dr Hunter raises his shoulders before sighing softly. He, too, evidently holds with me and the Australians in this matter.

Turning my head, I look back out of the window. Maybe I should look away, but I know I can't. And so, I watch as if forced, as the soldiers raise their rifles, take aim… We don't hear the shots, but all of a sudden, the man tied to the tree trunk slumps down. He's not moving anymore.

"I wonder what he did?" I murmur, unable to tear my gaze away.

"Desertion, probably, or cowardice," answers Dr Hunter. "Those are the two most common reasons for a death penalty. There are others, though – striking an officer, for one."

He breaks off and suddenly, the silence between us is filled with – with _something_. At first, I don't understand it, but then… abruptly, my hand flies upwards to touch my neck. "You don't mean…?" I begin, aghast.

Dr Hunter shrugs slightly. "It could happen. You hold officer rank and he did more than just strike you," he replies. There is regret in his voice, but also a curious caution.

Incredulous, I stare at him, then shake my head forcefully. "But he had no idea what he was doing! Surely, they can't execute anyone who is ill!" I argue.

"They don't. But it is their prerogative to decided who is ill and who is not," Dr Hunter explains.

I swallow hard, ignoring the burning in my throat. "In that case, we will never again speak of what just happened," I announce, trying to sound as authoritative as I can manage. I turn away to quell any discussion but even as I do it, I think I can see something akin to relief pass over Dr Hunter's face. Or else, it might even be approval.

Without my volition, my gaze moves back to the window. The soldiers have dispersed but the man still hangs slumped over at the tree trunk. An officer walks over to him, pistol in hand.

"What…?" I ask, confused.

Dr Hunter already has an answer for me, "It falls to the commanding officer to check whether the condemned is truly dead. If he isn't, the CO has to shoot him himself. Among the soldiers of the execution squad, there is always one whose rifle is loaded with blanks. That way, in theory, everyone can retain hope that he wasn't the one to have delivered the final shot – though the lack of recoil reliably informs an experienced soldier of when he is shooting blanks. Still, the officer does not even get that kind of luxury. If the condemned is still alive, he has to shoot him point blank."

I shiver. Instinctively, I hug my arms around myself. "My fiancé commands a battalion", I murmur. "Do you think… do you think…?" But the words won't come.

"I think, Miss Blythe, that sometimes it is better not to know everything," Dr Hunter answers sympathetically.

Hesitatingly, I nod. Maybe he is right. Maybe this is one truth I'd better not know.

"Shall we have another look at your neck?" Dr Hunter asks kindly and I am grateful for the distraction, before I go too far down that particular trail of thought.

Patiently, I wait for him to examine my neck, after which he declares the swelling to have improved slightly and sends me to bed with untypical firmness. And so, I thank him and leave the office, truly meaning to go to my cabin. I pass the treatment room, absent-mindedly casting a look inside. With a jolt, I come to a halt. Inside, all alone and tied to a stretcher, is the man who attacked me.

Cautiously, hesitatingly, I enter the compartment. The eyes of the man, now dark and lucid, fix on me. When he notices the bruises on my neck and face, his eyes widen in shock. "Sister!" he murmurs hoarsely. "Sister, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to… I would never… I… you…"

Slowly, I shake my head. He falls silent abruptly. "I know you didn't intend to hurt me," I reply, myself surprised by how calm I am, "Though I can only guess at what brought you this far. I accept your apology – provided we will never speak of this again."

I would have forgiven him in any case, I think. But the image of the lifeless soldier tied to the tree trunk burns in front of my eye still and turns forgiveness into a necessity.

Incredulously, the man looks up at me. Several times, he opens his mouth and closes it without speaking. Finally, he manages to utter just two words, "Thank you."

Inclining my head slightly, I let routine take over as I reach for a swab and lightly dab it at a cut along his temple, acquired, in all probability, during his struggle with my three saviours. "You should rest", I point out. "It was a trying day."

"I would, Ma'am, only…" helplessly, the man falls silent. His eyes are deep and dark and pleading.

I look down at him, at this man who had survived for so many years and wonder what has happened to finally make it all unbearable to him.

Following an impulse, I pull up a stool, sit down next to him and, just once, stroke over his bruised face. And then, ignoring my burning throat and my croaking voice, I lift it in a song that is so old that this war hasn't scarred it yet.

 _Are you going to Scarborough Fair?  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Remember me to one who lives there,  
For she once was a true love of mine.  
…_

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Scarborough Fair' from the 16_ _th_ _or 17_ _th_ _century (source unknown)._


	58. When your fighting days are through

_September 30_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 15 Ambulance Train, France – Camiers, France_

 **When your fighting days are through**

Were anyone ever to ask me which injuries, among all those I have seen in this war, are the most horrible, I would probably choose the maimed faces.

Amputations are awful and mustard gas burns are vicious, and besides, this war has spawned more hideous wounds than I thought the human body could survive. But if I had to pick one injury among all that nastiness, it would be the mutilated faces. Those faces that are _there_ only in part.

They're saying that, in England, surgeons are getting better at reconstructing faces or, failing that, that they have craftsmen producing masks, which, with any luck, have a fleeting resemblance to the man the wearer used to be. But nothing, not operations and not masks, will ever belie that fact that these are men without faces.

The man currently lying in front of me, at any rate, is barely recognisable as one. Where his right ear should be, there's only a gaping hole. Two flat openings indicate where the nose was. The jaw only hangs from a couple of sinews. The skin is knotty and scarred and angrily red. I have no idea what he might have looked like before but I know with absolute certainty that not even his own mother would recognise him now.

And yet… what an absolute miracle that he is still _alive_.

The human body is, without question, a curious thing. So fragile and yet, so incredibly strong. One tiny piece of metal can carry it off, but it can also survive injuries that leave it looking less than human.

Shaking my head slightly, I reach for the man's hand, lay two fingers on the inside of his wrists and count out his pulse in my head. Dr Hunter gave him some morphine to make the train trip bearable for him, and for me that means I have to keep a special eye on him. I don't know if he will actually survive his injuries, but I do know that he won't die on my watch. Not if I have anything to say about it!

The pulse is slow, but that's the morphine. Everything considered, he's doing quite well. Death will have a fight on his hands with this one and I daren't predict who will win.

Gently, I lay down his arm and turn around, taking stock of the men in my ward carriage, looking for signs of pain or distress or _too much_ calm – for it is the quiet ones you have to keep an eye on. For now, I hear coughing coming from the furthest part of the carriage – it's the return of spring's Three-Day Fever that has struck down these men. We've had several of them on-board during every trip of the past two weeks; and had to put them up in normal ward cars several times, when there was no more space in the isolation ward up front. There even seem to be cases of Three-Day Fever at the so called 'home front' now, or at least I read something to that effect in a newspaper sometime last week and that newspaper was already several days old. If there is one thing we are lacking in this ambulance train it is current information.

Anyway, everyone catches a bout of 'flu once on a while and that Three-Day Fever has already proven itself to be nasty, but not especially dangerous. There are far worse things out there.

As I turn away from the 'flu patients, my gaze lands another patient and it might be instinct or else two years of experience, that has me pick him out specifically. He is sitting on one of the makeshift benches, bent forwards slightly, hiding one hand against his body. The front of his uniformed is sprinkled with blood.

"Hello," I greet quietly as I step next to him. "May I have a look at your hand?"

He looks up, clearly alarmed, then shakes his head forcefully. "It's alright, Ma'am," he murmurs, covering the injured hand with his good one.

Clicking my tongue disapprovingly, I kneel down next to him and simply pull the good hand away. He freezes in shock, but at least that gives me an opportunity to carefully take the maimed hand between both of my own and examine it.

His hand is not dressed, doesn't appear to have been medically treated at all. Though really… what am I calling a hand? It might have been a hand once, but now it's merely a mass of flesh and blood and sinews, the skin hanging off in shreds, pale bones sticking out at impossible angles. The pain must be something else. It almost surprises me that he is even conscious.

"Hm, they got you quite bad, didn't they?" I remark, angling for a cheerful tone. "I wonder why no doctor had a look at this before they put you on this train."

The man remains silent.

Questioningly, I look up at him. There's panic in his eyes and colour on his cheeks. I look down at his hand, then back at him. There's fear there and wariness and… shame.

He's ashamed.

And suddenly, I know. He hasn't been properly treated by a doctor yet because he actively prevented it. Because he knows what would happen if the wrong eyes were to see this particular injury.

"I was cleaning my rifle, Ma'am, when it discharged," he blurts out. "I really didn't want… I didn't mean… I didn't…" He breaks off, shaking.

And suddenly, I have a scratchiness in my throat and Scarborough Fair in my ears and see the image of a slumped down body tied to a tree trunk before my inner eye.

There are so many ways a person can break.

"Of course, you didn't," I assure him. "I know that. It's even more important that you let me dress your hand now. And then, we won't speak of it anymore, alright?"

I look at him, questioning, waiting for his assent. His eyes are uncertain, still fearful, but as I hold his gaze with my own, I can see his panic slowly subsiding. "That would be very kind, Sister," he finally manages to say.

With a quick smile I reach for mull and iodine and dressing material and do my best to dress the shapeless lump. I do not envy the operation team being tasked with forming it back into a hand.

Finally, I give him some of the morphine I carry with me always and lean back a little. "Finished," I announce, feeling quite pleased with my work.

"God bless you, Sister," answers the man in a hoarse voice.

"And you," I reply and am relieved to see that my smile finds something of a counterpart in his.

I can only hope that someone, God or fate or else a kind-hearted officer, will hold a protective hand over him. Otherwise, all this might end much quicker for him, than he could ever have intended.

Getting back to my feet, I pat the man's shoulder one last time, my eyes already searching the carriage. We have almost 650 patients on board and I am still not quite sure how we found a place for them all. Most of them are English. We haven't had many Canadians since the beginning of the month.

For the majority of September, we drove through Northern France, often transporting the wounded from the latest Flanders battles – always Flanders! More often than not, we took the route from Calais to Bergues and hence to Ana Jana Siding, a cluster of CCs close to Hazebrouck. From there, it was back to St. Omer and then on to Calais or the western coast, to Camiers or Terlincthun, a tiny hamlet, positioned strategically favourable between Boulogne to the south and Wimereux to the north.

In the past few days, however, we collected our patients in Varennes, a village to the northeast of Amiens and it still fills me with silent wonder to think that, mere weeks ago, Varennes lay firmly in what was then No Man's Land. Now it's far enough behind the frontline that they allow even nurses to go there!

It is strange, to get so close to all these destroyed towns and villages, the names of which have burnt themselves on our memories long ago. Albert and Pozières, where the battles of 1916 were fought – paid for so dearly and yet, so futile in the end. Beaumont-Hamel, where the Newfoundland Regiment was annihilated in but a day. Courcelette and Thiepval, where the Canadians fought and died. It makes me shiver, every time. This is a place of death and since when do the dead tolerate the living disturbing their peace?

A little angrily, I shake off the chill that has settled within my bones.

In all probability, I am just in a curious mood. I haven't heard anything yet from Ken or my brothers, since the last battle three days ago when the Canadians crossed the insurmountable _Canal du Nord_. Not knowing always makes me restless and jumpy and has me imagining things I'd better not.

Squaring my shoulders and raising my chin a little, I walk over into my second car. This car isn't primarily khaki-coloured. Field grey is the colour of the men's uniforms, their faces pale, their eyes shadowed. It's impossible to say what they are thinking.

In almost three months of duty on this train, I cared for patients from every country somehow involved in this war. From England and Canada, naturally, as well as from Scotland and Ireland, from Australia and New Zealand, France and the USA. Even Indian soldiers were among them as well as those from the West Indian Isles, colloquially called BWIs in military jargon. I also remember well a couple of Chinese from the Labour Corps. When we're doing trips further away from the front, we also sometimes get female patients – nurses and VADs and the odd member of the WAAC, the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps.

And yes, time and again, we had German prisoners of war amongst our patients. Even during my first trip in July, we had POWs on board and they're getting more numerous, the further our troops push eastwards. By now, they make up the second largest group of patients after men from the British Empire. There must be a good hundred field grey figures today.

Most of them are walking wounded, sitting upright on the benches. Only one stretcher case has been heaved up into one of the uppermost cots. Fetching a stool from the other end of the carriage, I am aware, for my entire walk along the aisle, of silent, motionless, indecipherable gazes fixed on my back. I have gotten used to the POWs by now, out of sheer necessity if nothing else, but that doesn't mean I don't usually try to leave their section of the train as quickly as possible.

Though at least these Germans are quiet. Not so very long ago I had a rather lightly wounded German officer on my ward, blithely explaining to me in cut-glass King's English that Canadians were known to take no prisoners and wasn't that proof of all Canadians basically being feral anyway? I gritted my teeth and held my tongue and went to ask Miller to take him off my hands. Miller eats pompous German officers for breakfast.

With too loud a sound in this too quiet carriage, I put down the stool on the floor, right next to the laying German. The guard next to the door raises his head for a moment but when I reassure him with a nod, he turns away again.

Climbing up on the stool, I bend towards the patient. He has been bandaged hurriedly, but where the dressings have slipped, I can see nasty burns. Not mustard gas but simple heat caused them, I am reasonably sure, though the men have told me that the use of mustard gas is, finally no longer a German prerogative.

Very cautiously, I lay one hand on the man's forehead. It's one of the very few parts of him that appear unhurt, but even here the skin feels far too hot to the touch. His eyes open, glassy and feverish, rotating and searching, until they finally fix on my face.

" _Franziska_?" he croaks, voice hoarse. " _Bist du das, meine liebe Franziska?_ " His eyes flit back and worth, restless, looking at me for several seconds before moving away again.

What he is saying, I have no idea. For me, these are merely shapeless sounds, hissing and creaking, that make no sense at all. It's moments like these when I wish for Cooper and his Silesian grandmother at my side.

" _Franziska_?" tries the man once more.

A name, perhaps?

"Sh," I soothe, "shshshhh." This, at least, is the same, irrespective of language.

I put one hand on his shoulder, holding him down, while quickly examining his wounds with the other hand. He lies still, but the whimpering sounds coming from him need no translation. " _Franziska_ ," he keeps whispering, " _Franziska, Franziska, Franziska_."

The burns look truly awful. They hurt like hell, burns, whether from mustard gas or fire. And yet, there's precious little I can do for him. The dressings need to be changed but I have neither the proper material nor time or space for that, balancing as I am on a stool mere inches away from the train ceiling. Ideally, to dress wounds as extensive as these, you have a doctor and two nurses and preferably a couple of orderlies in the background. Nothing that could possible done in a moving train with its skeleton staff.

He'll have to wait until we've reached our destination before someone can attend to his dressings. Camiers, I think, could be where we're heading, as we have often done recently. There, he has four proper English hospitals waiting for him and his wounds. And here's hoping that whatever they can do for him there will suffice. Burns can be vicious and need an especially long time to heal. The only thing I can do to give him some temporary relief is to take some of his pain away.

Reaching into the pocket of my apron, I pull out a syringe and the bottle of morphine. I turn away, shielding both with my back from the patient's gaze, which is still jumping about. I've cared for enough men to know that not all of them find the sight of a syringe to be calming, especially not the POWs. Sometimes, I wonder what they think I'll do with that syringe. Fill it up with poison?

" _Franziska_?" comes the German's voice from behind me, increasingly desperate, " _Mein Liebling_?"

By now, I am pretty sure that Franziska is, indeed, a name. Probably that of a woman, though it does sound rather curious for a female name. Still, I hope for both him and the mysterious Franziska that he will yet pull through.

Filled syringe in one hand, casually hanging down at my side, I turn back around. Those glassy eyes fix on mine, so I try to be as calm as possible.

"Shsh," I murmur. And then, to calm him down, " _Ruhig_." It is one of the very few words I know in his language.

Briefly squeezing his hand, I let my fingers move upwards along his arms. As quickly as I can manage, I give him the injection, pushing the plunger all the way down. I wait for a movement as the needle breaks skin, but he lies motionless. The flitting eyes have stilled all of a sudden. Unmoving, without so much as blinking, they look up into my face.

"Franziska," he whispers, and I know instinctively that this is a question no longer.

On impulse, without quite thinking it through, I nod. "Franziska," I repeat, the foreign name unfamiliar and scratchy on my tongue.

The man sighs deeply. His eyes, at first so restless and then unnervingly still, finally close. He seems, suddenly, to be almost peaceful but that's not the injection's doing. Morphine might do near miracles against pain, but not even morphine works this quickly.

He calmed down because he saw Franziska again. And if it helps this poor man, I shall be Franziska for him.

For several moments, I remain standing on the stool gently stroking his arm while his breathing gradually slows down. Franziska brought him peace and morphine brought him sleep. Maybe that's the best he can hope for right now.

Sometimes, I wonder what we'd do if we didn't have morphine to send them to sleep. (There are those among us that use morphine to facilitate an eternal sleep, from which no one ever wakes up, but I don't dare; the memory of Not-Dead forbids it.)

With a soft sigh, I climb down from my stool. When I turn back around I can see, several steps away from me, a German soldier standing in the aisle and looking at me shyly. The guard has come a little closer, waiting for the man to do something.

Raising both eyebrows, I give the German an encouraging nod. If there isn't, by chance, one among them able to talk in English or French, communication with POWs is usually restricted to gestures and facial expressions and fragments of words.

" _Fräulein_ ," says the man in German, " _Fräulein, bitte…_ " He makes a small hand movement, gesturing to another field grey soldier, sitting on one of the benches, bend over, his face almost as grey as his uniform.

" _Bitte_ ," repeats the man in the aisle, lowering his eyes.

Now, my work has really not taught me many German words and, to be honest, I wasn't an attentive scholar. This word, however, I know. _Please_. It's universal.

And so, I walk over to the men on the bench, raising his head with one hand and eyeing him thoroughly. His eyes are wide and blood-shot, sweat beads on his forehead, and his breath is coming in wheezing gasps. I can't see any outer injury, but I already suspect gas. It looks bad, but I've seen worse cases. He won't be knocking on Heaven's gate anytime soon – and by now, I'm shockingly accurate in determining whom Death has marked as his.

I can't do much for him in this train, but still I do what little I can. Pulling him up by his armpits, I make sure he sits straight, hoping breath might come a little easier. When he looks at me, there's fear in his eyes – does he really believe _I_ would hurt him? – and his breath comes a little faster.

" _Ruhig_ ," I murmur, " _ruhig_." If it's his language from my lips that calms him I cannot say, but after a moment of hesitation, I can see the panic slip from his face, the strain lift from his shoulders.

Helping him to lean back against the back rest, I ask one of the orderlies for a glass of water. Then I turn back to the other man, still standing in the middle of the aisle, wringing his hands. When his eyes meet mine, they are fearful and, all of a sudden, I feel such pity from him that I grapple for two more German words I couldn't prevent from learning.

They are " _gut_ " and " _bald_ ".

What I want to tell him is that the other man won't die and that it's not far to the hospitals of Camiers.

What he interprets into those two words, I cannot tell. At least, his face brightens immediately. Likely purely on impulse, he takes a step towards me, reaching for my hand. In that very first moment, I feel the urge to pull it back but then I stop myself.

" _Danke_." And thus, he completes that quintet of words I know in the language of Goethe and Hölderlin.

There's a smile on his lips, shining eyes above a straggly beard. It's a language that needs no words. His eyes are kind.

Very, very hesitatingly, I smile back.

And somehow that seems to convince my ward car of POWs that they have nothing to fear from me. They come alive, one after the other. Where there were only dull, wary looks beforehand, they now seem to sense something akin to hope. Cautious hands rise into the air to get my attention, fingers point to injuries and faces contort in pain.

I will probably never truly forget that each and every one of these men stood on the wrong side of the line that has torn Europe apart right in the middle. And yet, as they are sitting here, they seem as human as their khaki-clad counterparts in the next carriage. They're all tired and they're all exhausted. In their own way, these POWs are as far from home as I am. The fighting might be over for them, but their fate is uncertain and their home out of reach.

And so, I walk from one to the next, gesticulating and pulling faces and utilizing my quintet of words, and somehow, we manage. I do for them what I can, even bring a pair of rebelliously-looking orderlies to heel with a strict glare. I don't care if they're averse to treating German patients. Patients are patients and so we _will_ take care of these men, if only to disprove their false belief about Canadians not treating their prisoners right.

The train moves onwards as I hurry between my patients; those in khaki and those in field grey, until finally, when the sun has just reached its zenith, the train comes to a halt with a sudden jolt and a screeching sound. A quick glance out of a window reveals the train station of Camiers.

The off-loading of patients is, as usual, a chaos that's hard to make sense of. Those on their feet take themselves outside while the stretcher cases need to be carried out, not a pleasant experience for anyone involved. The POWs are kept under constant guard as well, which does make the detraining go smoother. We nurses hasten hither and fro, give orders here and lend a hand there and try to get some semblance of order into this chaos. It's one of the first tricks a nurse learns, especially in this war.

I am just supporting an elderly English private – can it be true that the English are already calling up fifty-years-old conscripts? – and help him climb down the steps of the train and onto the platform, when, out of the corner of my eyes, I spy two figures hurrying towards me.

"There she is! Here, Ford, wait a moment," one of them calls out, Miller.

I give the private's arm a pat, noting that he seems much surer on steady ground, and turn to Miller. "What – ?" When I see who's with her, I interrupt myself.

Tim.

What on earth is _Tim_ doing here?

They have reached me. Miller stretches out a hand, laying it on my arm. Warily, I look down at the hand, then back up at her face. What is happening here?

"Thank God you're here. I've been looking for you for ages," Tim gasps. He is standing slightly bent forwards, hands pressed into his sides.

My wary gaze turns to his face. It is pale, strained… fearful, even? Something cold reaches for my heart.

"You have to come with me! We've arranged it all. The car's over there," Tim manages to choke out. Then, softer, as if to himself, "Dear God, I hope we're not too late."

Quizzically, I look from him to Miller. "To Étaples. To one of the hospitals," she adds with a regretful shake of her head. There's pity in her eyes and I don't like it any more than Tim's fear.

I don't move.

Tim's fingers close around mine, tugging at my hand. "We have to hurry," he insists. "Don't you understand that?"

I do. I do understand it. Very well, even. I understood it the moment I recognized him.

There's an ice-cold calm suddenly washing over me. And with it, clarity.

Someone will die.

The only question is…

"Who?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Au revoir but not Good Bye' from 1917 (lyrics by Lew Brown, Music by Albert von Tilzer)._


	59. And that yet once before I die

_September 30_ _th_ _, 1918  
No. 7 Canadian General Hospital, Étaples, France_

 **And that yet once before I die**

Silently, I follow Tim through the hospital. I am utterly numb. As if through a haze, sounds filter through to me. I know I recognize them – the daily hospital bustle – but it feels strangely off. It's not _real_.

"They brought him in the night before last. I only learned it in the morning. I heard the name and… I knew I had to find you. I pleaded with God knows whom, to try and find out where your train was. This morning, someone told me you'd be detraining patients in Camiers, so I organized a car and came to get you," Tim prattles on. I don't react to it. It doesn't make a difference.

With a gesture and a concerned glance, Tim indicates the correct ward to me. With measured steps, I enter, ignoring the curious faces turning towards me. As if pulled by magnets, I walk towards the screen at the other side of the room. I know instinctively that this is my destination.

The screen comes closer. There's something within me, something fearful and childish, that wants to turn and _run_. Back to the train, back to the front, back _home_. No matter where, as long as it's not here. Away, _away_ from what the screen is hiding. It's not real until I see it.

Still, I walk on. Very calmly, one foot in front of the other. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I don't know how.

A figure steps around the screen. Pale face, shadowed eyes, tear-stained cheeks. Persis.

She sees me, and her eyes widen. "Rilla", she chokes, "oh God, _Rilla_. I'm so sorry." Her voice breaks. New tears follow old trails.

I don't reply. My gaze slides off her, fixing on the screen instead. I have to change direction slightly to walk around Persis, just a small curve, and for a moment, that irritates me, but my feet know what to do. One foot on front of the other. Always one foot on front of the other.

The child within me crawls away to hide, not wanting to see this. I let it. It feels too much. It's better not to feel. It isn't real until I feel it.

My feet carry me onward, around the screen and there, sudden and yet entirely expected, he is.

At least his face is unharmed.

The first, irrational thought. At least his face is as it used to be. He's still _himself_.

The feet walk forward, step after step after step. The edge of the bed stops them. They pause, confused. They don't know what to do, now that the bed has been reached.

I look down at his face. His eyes are closed.

"He's asleep," remarks a quiet voice from behind me.

Sleep or unconsciousness. One of the two. Not dead. He isn't dead. He's not still enough to be dead. I would know if he were dead.

And that breaks through the numbness.

Abruptly, I whirl around, glaring at Persis. "If he's still alive, why is no one helping him?" I snap.

Shock registers on her face. Maybe fright. "But… but… they did all they could… they tried everything…" she stutters.

"If they had really done everything, he'd be alright now," I hiss. "That he isn't just shows that they _didn't_ try everything."

Tim comes up next to Persis, hands raised soothingly.

Who's he trying to placate here?

"Really, I assure you –," he begins.

I don't let him finish. I don't have time for hollow assertions. "Where's the doctor in charge of his treatment?" I ask curtly.

Silence is the only answer I get.

"The _doctor_!" I insist, growing impatient. Why does everyone here insist on playing at being dim-witted?

They exchange a meaningful glance. "I'll go get him," sighs Tim.

There we go.

I turn around, back to the bed. He's quiet but not still. That's good. It's not real until he is still.

A hand on my arm. "Let me," I demand harshly, pulling my arm away.

"I'm sorry," murmurs Persis. "I just thought…"

"Stop thinking, then. What is it to you anyway? He's _my_ brother!" I hiss at her, not even turning around.

My eyes hold on to him. Quiet, but not still. Not still.

An intake of breath behind me. "Correct. And even if it were my brother, I'd still be standing here behind you now, wouldn't I?" All of a sudden, Persis sounds very calm.

Her words take my own breath away, for one moment, two moments. Like a punch to the gut. I didn't think… I didn't….

But no. Fate wouldn't do that. Fate wouldn't _dare_!

My eyes fix on his face. I don't even want to blink for fear of missing something. I take careful note of every smallest movement. Every twitch of the eyelids, every flutter of the lashes.

He's asleep but he isn't still. Not _still_!

A disturbance behind me. Footsteps coming closer. Two pairs. The doctor? I'm torn. I want to turn around, but I don't want to take my eyes off of him. It's not real until I can't see him anymore.

Then, an unfamiliar voice, "Miss Blythe?"

Miss - ? Oh, right. We're still playing charade. There once was a time when I thought it necessary. Why was that, again?

The voice once more, "Miss?"

To turn around? Not to turn around? Caught, I remain motionless.

The hand on my arm again. This time, I allow it. "I'll have an eye on him," Persis promises quietly. I hesitate, then nod. I can trust Persis.

I turn around. Tim stands next to the doctor. His gaze is one of pity and it makes fury rise within me. I don't want him to feel pity, I want him to _do_ something.

The doctor gives me a slight nod. He introduces himself, but I forget his name immediately. I have no patience for unnecessary information.

"What's the matter with him?" I ask harshly. Once I know what's wrong, I can decide what to do to help him.

"He has a gunshot wound –", begins the doctor, but I let him get no further.

"Caused by what?" I want to know. I need all information. Can't they see that?

Tim answers, "Machine gun, in all likelihood."

That's not good. But as long as he isn't still, I can do something yet.

Quickly, I look at him. He is very quiet and for a moment – but no, a twitch of his right eyelid. Slowly, I let go of a breath. It's not real until he has stopped stirring.

"Where?" I enquire further, casting a short glance at the doctor.

"He has internal wounds," he explains. "They operated on him while still close to the front, but he has lost a lot of blood and we suspect he continues to bleed internally. It's not major bleeding, but the blood loss is steadily worsening."

Throwing my head back, I eye him testily. Who allowed this charlatan to treat my brother anyway?

"If he is losing blood, you have to _give_ him blood, not only that goddamned saline drip. What does he need that for? Has no one ever heard about blood transfusions around here? We did those in Flanders more than a year ago. You can hardly be _this_ backward around here!" I snarl at the doctor.

He takes step back. A charlatan _and_ a coward?

"A blood transfusion can only be successful once the bleeding has been stopped," Tim remarks cautiously instead.

I roll my eyes. "You don't say? He needs blood transfusions to stabilize his condition, so he can be operated on afterwards to seek the source of the bleeding and for it to be stopped. You should have done that hours ago!"

"Rilla…" That's Persis, timid. Warily, I turn around and just catch her hurriedly looking back down at him.

So, I can't even trust Persis now? Where _am_ I?

"He wouldn't survive another operation," counters the doctor. "Even more so, as we don't know where the bleeding is located. If an organ was injured, there's nothing we can do anyway."

"If an organ _were_ injured, he'd hardly be here still after – after how many days?" Through narrowed eyes, I look at Tim.

"He was wounded three days ago," he answers, not without hesitation.

Three days ago. Canal du Nord. The insurmountable canal. It truly was, for him.

"There you go," I nod. "Three days. He wouldn't be here after three days if the odds were set against him."

Tim and the doctor exchange a glance. But no one says anything.

"So?" I look from one to the other. Silence is their answer.

Cowards!

Finally, quietly, the answer from behind me. Persis. "No one thought he'd even make it this far," she explains haltingly. "We… we told him you would come. Or, that we'd try to get you, rather. That… I think that's why he's still here. He's waiting for you."

My anger evaporates in the blink of an eye. What remains is a hollowness that makes me wish for the anger back. It's not real until there's nothing left but emptiness.

But the anger is gone. I sink down to sit on the edge of the bed. My gaze is fixed ahead and yet, unseeing.

"We tried," Persis whispers. Her hand settles on my shoulder, her fingers brushing back the veil. The veil belonging to my uniform. The uniform that was supposed to save them, to save them all. Futile, futile.

My eyes search his face. He almost appears peaceful and yet, I can see now, what before I refused to see.

I know when Death has marked someone as his. He carries the mark.

Once before, I ripped from the clutches of Death a man I love. He won't give me another one. I had one chance and I used it and now it is gone. I am helpless. Worthless.

Slowly, I stretch out a hand, touch his face. His beautiful, unharmed face.

And there – suddenly, a flutter of his lashes. Flutter, flutter… Hope wells up within me, hot and boiling and painful. I _know_ there's nothing to hope for anymore, but I do still hope.

Hope, after all, is for when everything else has left us.

The eyes open slowly, with effort. I look into them and see pain and exhaustion and a great tiredness. Then, realization. The eyes hold on to my gaze. "Rilla-my-Rilla," he murmurs.

"Walter," my voice barely above a whisper.

Vaguely I am aware of the figures behind us withdrawing, but I can look at nothing but him, drink in the sight of him.

The corners of his mouth start to rise. It's a fight, but finally, there's a smile on his face. Weak, shaking, but a smile still. "I am – glad – that you came," he manages, haltingly.

I reach for his hand. "Of course I came! And now I'm here, we will look after you properly. We'll make sure you get better and then you're going to get operated on again and after that, you'll go home."

Hope, apparently, is a stubborn thing.

Walter, still smiles, shakes his head slowly. When he speaks, his voice is still quiet, but surer, "I will never see home again, Rilla-my-Rilla."

This, then, is how hope dies. It's a curious feeling.

What's left is despair.

My throat is tight. I want to scream but can't get out a single sound.

With great effort, Walter's fingers close around mine. "Please don't be sad," he whispers, "Or no, _be_ sad. It's alright to be sad. But please – don't be sad for me."

I want to reply, but find I have no words.

"I knew this day would come. I have known – for a while," Walter continues, voice strained. "I could – write again. I wrote no line for – for two years. And suddenly, some weeks ago – it poured out of me. It's all – among my belongings. Please, take everything."

Silently, I nod. My eyes burn.

"And don't be too – too distraught, my Rilla. It is – hard, I know. But it is – good," Walter murmurs.

The smile has reached his eyes and I feel the despair within me boil up.

" _Good_?" I force out.

"Not – good, maybe," Walter concedes. "But it is how it is. If this is – the plan for me, then it – it is good how it is."

" _Don't_!" I flare up, surprising myself with the intensity of my protest. "Don't you dare tell me about a benevolent God up in Heaven and his plan for every person. Don't you do that to me!"

I wouldn't be able to bear it.

Walter's eyes consider me for several moments. "Then I – won't do it," he promises finally. "But please believe me – believe me that, for me – for me, it is good."

I shake my head, slowly at first, then increasingly faster.

"You can't tell me it is good for you to – to – to –," the word snags, gets caught in my throat, bulky and cutting, and I cannot force it out.

For him, apparently, it is easy. "To die? No. It is not – not that simple. I would have liked – to see more. The world as it will be. I would have liked to – to meet your children, Rilla-my-Rilla. I am sad for everything – I will not experience now. But I know that – I never would have – experienced it anyway."

"How can you be so calm?" I protest desperately.

His voice is quiet when he says, "I had many – many beautiful years. I had the opportunity – to help people. That was a gift. And now – now I have to go home."

It's the past tense that feels like a stab to my heart.

He has already put all this behind him.

His home and mine are no longer the same. They do not even exist in the same world anymore.

"I don't – have long, now," Walter murmurs. The strain is evident on his face.

So, Persis was right. He only waited for me to come.

I bury my fingernails into the palm of my hand. It should hurt, but the pain is nothing compared to what I feel within.

"Tell everyone – that I love them," he asks. "Tell our parents that – I am grateful. For everything. And tell them all – that they should not – not despair. There's always – happiness for them. They only have to – allow it to happen."

Allow happiness to happen. It seems harder than it ever did before. I look down at my fist. I don't dare meet his gaze again. I'm afraid of what he would see in my face.

"And if someone has – has the foolish – the foolish idea of naming a child – for me, then – then I will come back – to haunt them," Walter continues.

Abruptly, I raise my head. Something flashes in his eyes, for just the fraction of a second. Could this be humour? Is he, even now, trying to comfort me?

A deep breath. "And you, my wonderful little sister… I know you will – experience beauty again. Please think of me – when you see something – something beautiful in this world," he asks.

Can anything ever be beautiful in this lost, tortured world?

"Walter…" I whisper, before my voice breaks. I can feel it is time.

"Let me go, Rilla-my-Rilla," Walter murmurs. I can hardly hear him anymore.

I don't want to. Everything within me baulks at the thought. I want to keep him here, hold him tight, so that he may never, _never_ leave me. But at the same time, I know it wouldn't be fair. I see the tiredness in his gaze and the exhaustion in his face and the pain in his eyes. Only for me is he still holding on to this world that is his no longer.

So, I nod.

A deep sigh on his lips. The exhaustion passes, then the tiredness, finally even the pain. All that is left is a deep, encompassing calm. Maybe this is what peace looks like.

One last time, he smiles at me, then his eyes close –

And so, it becomes real.

A sound rips through the silence. Ugly, pained.

It's me.

Broken sobs are torn from my lips, echoing in the silence. Tears though, won't come. My eyes remain dry. Not so long ago, it was him who gave me back my tears – it is only natural that he should take them with him now.

I cannot say how long I sit there, completely motionless. It must be hours. Light gives way to dark that turns to light once more. People leave, come back, leave again. At some point, the sobs cease but still, I remain there and tell him, without words, everything I did not have the time to tell him before, hoping that he is close enough to hear it yet.

Finally, when light has long ago chased away the merciful darkness, soft footsteps. I don't move. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Tim on the other side of the bed.

Moments pass in silence, until it spills out of him, "We… we made a coffin for him. Me and some of the boys. I know how much you hate those shrouds and nowadays, you just can't be sure, not even with an officer."

Slowly, I turn my head to look at him.

Tim avoids my gaze, speaking twice as fast, "Persis should be back soon. She needed to go to her own hospital to ask the matron for another day off. I don't think it will be a problem though. Her matron was very understanding these past couple of days. Maybe you'd like to… well, to wait outside, once she's back?"

"I'm staying." My voice is quiet but firm.

To leave is not an option.

Nervously, Tim shifts from one foot to the other. Still, he won't look at me. "It's just… well, we have to… to lay out the body now," he finally manages.

Of course we do.

"I'm staying," I assert once more.

Surprised, Tim raises his head, finally meeting my gaze. By accident, I assume. And yet, whatever he sees in my eyes, it makes him nod slowly. "Alright," he replies simply and that decides it.

Together, in deep silence, Tim and I bend over the body that used to be my brother and prepare him for his final journey. And it feels right for me to do this. I could not save him, but this, this I can do. To accompany him on his very last journey.

So, I follow the coffin – at least he has _that_ – with Persis on one side and Tim on the other and while they cannot chase away the loneliness that has taken hold within me, I am still glad not to be alone.

The cemetery stretches out beneath our feet, a sea of wooden crosses, and behind it, across a real sea, home. It has never felt more distant. Here, then, far away from home, he will have his final resting place. For this is what he has found, isn't it?

I am grateful I was able to be with him in his last hours, that I was allowed to accompany him on this final journey. It is the last thing I will ever be able to do for him.

And yet… no, maybe not the last thing. A memory pushes to the forefront of my mind. For there is something else. A promise, carelessly given, in what feels like another life. The promise to never lose my laugh.

It is, perhaps, the one promise that will take everything I've got. Still, I _will_ keep it. I don't know how, but somehow, I will keep this promise. That, at least, I owe him. He who always believed in me. If he had faith in me laughing again, on some distant day, it will be so. It has to be so, though it feels as if my laugh has left me forever. But he believed in me, so I must as well.

I have to believe. Even when it feels impossible, I have to. In me, in the people, in this world. In that it will one day be golden once more. I will believe because he did and isn't here to do it anymore.

And so, I stand in this cemetery, surrounded by wooden crosses and know that this, then, is goodbye.

Farewell, my brother.

Silently I stand by as the coffin disappears into the sandy earth…

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Greensleeves' from the 16_ _th_ _century, first published in 1580 (source unknown)_


	60. Roses will die with the summertime

_October 30_ _th_ _, 1918  
Canadian Convalescent Officers' Hospital, Matlock Bath, England_

 **Roses will die with the summertime**

The men on my ward call me the ghostly nurse.

Maybe it's because I only speak to them when strictly necessary. Maybe it's because I never visit any of the dances or tea parties that apparently take place here almost daily. In all likelihood though, it's because I only leave my room at night.

Either way, it is of no interest to me. Ever since I left the cemetery in Étaples, I feel utterly numb.

I left it to Persis to send the necessary telegrams. I don't know what she wrote in them, but I suppose there's no proper way of phrasing it anyway, so it's not like it makes a difference.

They took me to the nurses' quarters of Tim's hospital, put me into a bed and gave me tea to drink; which tasted of nothing in particular and yet, must have been spiked with _something_ , for when I woke up, it was the next day.

For two days, I stood at the entrance of that cemetery, without ever setting a foot inside. On the third day, they told me I was going back to England. I did consider if it was worth the effort of protesting, but Tim promised to look after him and I didn't have enough strength left for a fight. So, I picked up my luggage, which someone must have collected from the ambulance train, took my leave from Persis and Tim, and allowed myself to be put on a train.

Who organized my transfer, I don't know? It didn't interest me enough to ask. Some other nurse must have taken my place on that ambulance train, but I know neither who she is nor where she came from, and it doesn't matter to me either way.

Once in the train, I sat down on the left side, so that I could look at the river instead of the cemetery.

I spent most of the journey dozing. In the train to Boulogne, on the ship to England, on the train to London and finally on the train taking me northward, past Luton and Bedford and Kettering and Leicester and Derby. I didn't want to see or hear anything and in pretending to be asleep, at least I got everyone to leave me alone.

The route was almost the same Walter and I took when we visited Jerry. Has it really been almost two years?

And now they're both dead.

I know they were worried in Étaples, worried about me getting lost on the journey. But my head works just fine. I know what I am doing, I know where I am, I know what is happening around me – it's just my emotions that are numb.

It was late in the evening when I arrived at my destination and only when I stood on the platform of the small train station and looked at the sign, did I realize where the train had taken me, Matlock Bath. Ken had been here, less than six months ago. And while everything else had only reached me as if through a haze until then, that particular realization sent a sharp pain through me. I want my brother back, more than anything else in this world, but if I can't have my brother, I at least want my husband.

But Ken is in France and I am here, in Matlock Bath. And Walter is in another place entirely.

The war is yet something else I don't care about anymore. It only interests me inasmuch as it still has the power to take Ken and Shirley from me, and so, it isn't with a feeling of triumph or even relief that I see the thin line on the maps in the paper move to the right. Instead, it instils me with fear. Fear is one of the very few feelings that I am still able to recognise.

And so my world shrinks. I don't read papers, nor do I listen to conversations. I don't want to hear anything about the war anymore, except news about the wellbeing of brother and husband. What else is important, after all?

Someone must have come to collect me at that train station, but I can't remember who it was. We drove through Matlock Bath, a spa town, wedged between mountain and river, built into the hills. And at the very end of it, there is a rather grand building that once was the Royal Hotel and now houses the _Canadian Convalescent Officers' Hospital_.

Looking back, I suppose someone intentionally chose this position for me. A hospital for convalescing officer might just be the easiest posting a nurse can get. There are 25 nurses for 200 patients and considering that, often enough, I took care of an equal number of patients on my own while on the hospital train, it feels almost wasteful.

Someone must have informed the matron, for when she greeted me, her eyes were more concerned than I was able to stand. And then she asked me, on which ward I would like to work – that was the moment when I had no doubt anymore about her having been informed. No one ever gets to choose the work they do! Still, I was allowed to, and her concern turned to surprise when I asked for the night shift.

The explanation for that is, however, quite simple. I can't bear to see the sun.

Walter told me to remember him whenever I see something beautiful, so I'd rather see nothing at all.

And the sun, bright and mocking up in her heaven, I can't bear to look at. Whenever she starts extending her early rays over the horizon, I hole up in the little attic room they assigned to me, draw the curtains tight and only come back outside once darkness has fallen.

That, I think, is why I am the ghostly nurse.

My attic has become something of a sanctuary to me. When they are dancing and playing and laughing downstairs, it is still mercifully quiet up here. The idea of giving nurses on night duty isolated rooms for their own use, stems from the wish to provide them with a quiet environment to catch up on sleep during the day. But I don't sleep.

For when I sleep, it is no longer nameless strangers who come to visit me, it is my brother. It's his last minutes that I relive, over and over and over again, and that is why I have come to abhor sleep.

I lie in my bed, in darkness and silence, for hours upon hours, and hope that, if I neither hear nor see, it might be granted to me not to think either. It doesn't work though. The thought of him is always present, regardless of what I do.

And so, at some point, about a week after coming here, I gave up. I lit the small lamp on my bed stand and while it did push back the darkness a little, it wasn't nearly as bright as the sun. Then, in the light of that small lamp, I took out Walter's papers.

There are poems on those papers. Pages and pages of poems. Some remind me of the past with their dream-like verses, while others are clearly an attempt at finding words for what he saw. And on every single page, there are other notes scribbled next to the poems, and while the verses are in Walter's cursive hand, I immediately recognize the author of those marginal notes as well.

So, it was Ken, his oldest friend, to whom he had given these poems. This is a friendship that is so much older than anything Ken and I share and for a moment I was glad that they had managed to sustain it through it all. Then I remembered that the friendship, too, was cut short by his death, and the numbness returned.

The only way I have found to cope with that numbness, that awful feeling of hollowness, is to follow a strict routine and think as little as possible. In the evening, when the sun has retired for the night, I get up and go downstairs to do my duty on the ward.

The patients know by now that there is now joking, no jesting with me, and they mostly leave me alone. My hands know what to do and the work is easy. Our patients are convalescents and even when flu arrives at the hospital, striking down several patients as well as some of the staff, the work isn't nearly as hard as anything I did in France. And so, I know, even through the haze, that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, and doing it well, even if I can't find it in me to do it with a smile.

My colleagues, too, leave me to my own devices. In the beginning, some of the other nurses tried to convince me to accompany them to a dance or on a walk into town, but they gave up quite quickly. There's only a young doctor who turns up on my ward every evening and asks me how I am doing. If I thought my unchanging, monosyllabic answers would bore him after a while, I was mistaken, but I do not care enough to think about him much.

It is during the nights on duty, when the patients are asleep, and it is quiet all around, that I write my letters. They want to know how I am, as well, my friends, my family in Canada, the brother I have left, and my husband. And every time I sit there, pen in hand, the longing to see them hits me with such force that it hurts – pain, like fear, being one of the few emotions I am still able to feel. But they are all awfully far away from me and there are only letters left, and so I write. My writing papers lasts me so much longer these days.

In the beginning, I tried to record his last minutes on paper for our parents – night after night, I tried to write it down, only to rip the paper apart once morning dawned. In the end, I gave it up as a hopeless case. And so, I wrote home that he did not suffer, that his was a peaceful death, and delivered his final words. Perhaps there will come a day when I have words for his last moments but if so, it is still far away.

The patients cared for, the letters written, I flee as soon as the sun rises. I go up into my room, close the curtains, and take exactly one poem. Then, curled up in my bed, the room lit only by the small lamp next to me, I read his words, again and again and again, trying to burn them into my memory forevermore. And it is this little piece of the daily routine that keeps me going, that keeps me sane – before the sun sets and the cycle begins anew.

There is a peacefulness in his lines that speaks to me, and yet tortures me as well.

Those poems looking back at home and our childhood seem as if cloaked in a golden veil, making them feel almost otherworldly. The thought of this wonderful world we lost – disowned? – was almost unbearable to me in the first few days. Only later, slowly, did I realize that for Walter, past and future were the same. The home we had and the home he expected in death, are really very similar. Maybe they would even be the same place, but for the golden veil keeping them apart.

The other poems, those describing neither future nor past, but simply _today_ , are at the same time easier and harder to bear. There is no veil woven around them to soften the horror they contain. He portrayed this war in all its awfulness and I think that if he hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to stand reading them. There is not one line about the tragic hero dying for the good of the glorious empire, but there's quite a different kind of comfort in them, a comfort of the quiet kind. Not comfort for the dead, but for the living. For it is those left behind that need comfort much more desperately than those that have gone, isn't it? It is the living who need to know that those they love are going to a better place – and that for themselves, too, the world will be beautiful again.

It is these sentiments, the memory of a golden past and the belief in a golden future, even in the face of today's horror, that speaks out of all his poems. And it is his memories and his belief that I cling to, that make the world bearable to me even in its darkest – brightest? – hours.

And so, the days pass, turn into weeks, and the pile of unread poems melts along with them. That it is today of all days, exactly one month after he died, that I take the final page to hand, does not surprise me. It feels natural. A circle, finally closing.

Almost hesitatingly, I reach for the paper. In the past three weeks, it was his lines that brought me through another day. I am almost afraid to lose that. Once I have read the last poem, I have nothing left.

Once I have read this poem, he is truly gone.

'Beauty' is its title. And it is. It is a poem, dedicated to beauty in the most unexpected of places. Beauty in the middle of war.

There is the soldier sharing his package from home with a comrade who doesn't have anyone waiting for him. There is the flower, blooming bravely on the edge of trench. There is the NCO, helping a private wash his sore and infected feet. There is the letter from home, resurrecting the sanctuaries of childhood in a filthy dug-out. There is the medic, carrying a wounded man on his back for miles. There is the bird, floating high above no man's land. There is the officer writing letters for those of his men who can't. There is the sky full of stars, stretching above a war-wounded countryside.

It is a collection of beauty, beauty in nature and beauty in the souls of humans and perhaps – perhaps for the first time I realize how Walter managed to believe in the beauty of the world even amongst all this horror. For a world that manages to produce a flicker of beauty even in the darkest of darks can't be truly lost.

Again, and again I read his lines. Not only because these are the last lines, but because I know instinctively that I must never forget them.

After what feels like hours, I finally get up, walk slowly towards the window. My legs feel wobbly and I sink down on a chair next to it. It takes me three attempts before I finally manage to pull back the curtains that have been hiding the world from my eyes. A world, now painted in red and gold from the setting sun somewhere behind me.

It pains my eyes, so much light. For almost four weeks, I have lived in darkness and the sudden brightness makes my eyes hurt. For a moment, I close them, watching instead the explosion of wandering shadows behind my eyelids.

A tear rolls down my cheek.

Then another one.

I open my eyes again, touching my fingertips to my wet cheek. Tears are now running down my face, not just one or two, but steadily.

I haven't cried since the moment I knew he would die. He had given me back my tears before and when he went, he left me dry-eyed. How fitting then, that it is, once more, him who gives me back my tears, from this distant place in another world where we may not follow.

Minutes pass. I sit there, looking at the golden world outside, while silent tears fall from my eyes. And slowly, little by little, I let go of the pieces of him I have been holding on to.

On the other side of the window, the gold disappears, making way for the grey and silver of night.

He is truly gone now.

I know it won't suddenly be alright. Anger will come and so will desperation and grief, but anything is better than that terrible hollowness of the past weeks, the veil of numbness that pain and fear pierced far too seldom. It is only one step on a very long journey, but it feels like a step in the right direction. Away from him and yet, at the same time, closer to him.

Slowly, I get up from my chair. The sun has set and therefore, it is time to leave the solitude of my room and, in the safety of night, face the people down there.

My legs still feel weak. Something about the past hours has robbed me of my energy. It's almost as if I used up all my emotional strength and in doing so, depleted my physical strength as well.

In the light of my lamp, I put on my uniform, the oh so familiar movements suddenly don't come easily. I have to sit on the bed for a few minutes, catching my breath, before I can finally turn towards the door and what is behind.

Truth is, I am desperately tired. The thought of the coming night is suddenly abhorrent to me. Actually, I want to do nothing but sleep, for the first time in weeks. I haven't had any true sleep, just dozing a little here and there, and yet, I wasn't tired, not even for one day. Now, all of a sudden, it is different. Perhaps it's because sleep is, sometimes, the best healer of them all.

Holding on tightly to the railing, I walk down the stairs, taking one step after the other. The haze around me didn't only numb the grief but every other feeling as well. Not only the good feelings and the bad ones, but also those that are neither. Earthy, essential feelings. Tiredness, exhaustion. And now that the haze has passed, it is these feelings returning before all others. Somehow, I am grateful for being able to feel at all once more, but at the same time, the task before me looms high, though I fulfilled it without a thought only yesterday.

The distance between the stairs and my ward didn't feel as long yesterday either. Cautiously, I put one foot in front of the other, until I have arrived at the door to the ward. It, too, feels much heavier than it did last night.

I walk through the door, then pause for a moment, trying to catch my bearings. My head is light, and my legs are heavy. The world, immersed in iridescent light only minutes ago, suddenly feels shaky and unfocused. I blink several times, but to no avail.

A figure comes towards me. It takes me a moment to recognize the young doctor. The closer he gets, the faster he walks.

The air carries his voice over to me. "Sister? Sister? Are you alright? Sister Blythe!" He sounds agitated.

What…?

And then, everything turns dark.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Roses of Picardy' from 1916 (lyrics by Haydn Wood, music by Frederick Weatherly)._

* * *

 _To the anonymous Guest and CorneliaElliot:  
I can't contact you directly, but I'd still like to thank both of you for your reviews. I always love to hear from readers, so it's much appreciated that you took the time to comment. I am very happy to know that you enjoy this story and even seem to forgive me for not being able to keep Walter alive. I tried! But seeing as it didn't prove possible, I tried to write his death the best way I could and I am very glad to hear that you agree with my version of it.  
_


	61. Till it's over

_November 12_ _th_ _, 1918  
Canadian Convalescent Officers' Hospital, Matlock Bath, England_

 **Till it's over**

With an effort, I open my eyes. My throat feels parched and scratchy, my eyelids sticky and heavy from sleep. The light hurts my eyes and a pained little sound escapes my cracked lips.

"Oh, you're awake!" says a voice as if from great distance.

Slowly, I turn my head. There's a throbbing pain behind my eyes. My thoughts feel sluggish. On my chest, there is a weight, making every breath a laborious one. What is _wrong_ with me?

I try to blink away the heaviness and the brightness. My sight is unfocussed and only slowly does the world strengthen from blurred silhouettes into proper contours. Someone is sitting next to my bed. Narrowing my eyes, I try to focus.

Jem.

Yes, it is Jem.

Where does Jem come from?

I blink, confused.

"How are you?" he asks, with sympathy. Laying his warm, calloused hand on my forehead.

Yes, how am I?

I force my sluggish thoughts into action, to consider the question. I think I am – unwell?

Opening my mouth, I want to speak, but only manage an unintelligible croak. Helplessly, I look up at Jem. My tongue feels furred and swollen, as if too big for my mouth.

"Here, drink something," murmurs Jem, offering a glass of water.

It sounds like a sensible idea. I try to sit up, but my body just collapses in on itself. My arms, too, prove useless, buckling when I try to prop myself up on them. Everything hurts, and nothing does what it ought to do.

Jem again, "Wait. Let me help you." Then, gently but firmly, he slides an arm around my shoulders and raises me into a sitting position. The arm stays there, keeping me upright, as the world is thrown off its hinges, swinging wildly in all directions.

I close my eyes tightly, feeling dizzy.

Several moments pass before I dare open them again. The world is still moving, but slower now, and I dare a cautious glance at Jem.

"Better?" he asks with a small smile.

I want to nod but I'm afraid that, were I to move my head, the world would start moving again, so I don't do anything at all. Jem seems to understand for he doesn't wait for an answer, instead reaching for the glass of water again and holding it against my lips. I'd like to protest, but I have serious doubts that my jelly-like arms would be able to hold the glass, so I allow his help. In tiny sips the water passes my lips and I swear to God, I've never tasted anything as delicious before.

"That's enough for now," Jem announces, far too soon, pulling the glass away. Longingly, I follow it with my eyes.

"I want – more," I manage to croak out. My throat still hurts awfully, every breath a fight, and as I touch my tongue to my lips, they feel dry and cracked.

"Not now. Later," decides Jem. I glare at him, but it seems to be a pitiful attempt, because he smiles back at me.

Slowly, he lowers his arm back to the mattress and as only his hold has been keeping me upright, I follow the movement quite naturally. Moments later, I'm lying back down again, which at least is agreeable to my throbbing head. The world stills once more.

"What – happened?" I ask, meaning myself and everything else.

"You had the flu" answers Jem, "and pretty nastily at that."

I frown, trying to make sense of his words. Flu? I have a feeling I should know what he's talking about and yet… "Which flu?"

Now, his eyes are incredulous. " _Which flu_?" he repeats. "The flu that has been infecting thousands of people for weeks now – and killing them! You can't have missed that? It was in all the papers! If, granted, only on page 4 or 5, after all the war news had been dealt with. Still, you must have ill patients here as well?"

Yes, now that I think about it, I remember flu patients. There didn't seem to be very many, but then I wasn't paying much attention to what was happening around me, was I? Maybe there were more than I realized? It is possible.

"Hm… some were ill, I guess – but I don't know – how many," I answer slowly. "And I haven't – read any papers since –"

Walter.

The memory hits me like a blow. I curl into a ball, closing my eyes tightly. The flu is not responsible for the lump in my throat. For a moment, the weight on my chest presses down so forcefully, that I cannot breathe.

A hand on my back, stroking gently, moving in lazy circles. "Shush. I know," murmurs Jem.

Minutes pass, until it finally feels bearable. Slowly, I raise my head, drawing air into my protesting lungs. When I look at Jem, there is raw pain in his eyes and I desperately want to comfort him, but I don't trust my body. Instead, I raise a shaking hand and gently touch his shoulder.

"For a moment there, we were afraid of losing you as well," he finally remarks, and I know he says it because he can't bear talking about Walter.

Still – to hear that my illness was apparently that serious, surprises me. It takes some effort to get my mind to think back and the memories come only slowly, disjointed - just snatches, really. Gentle hands on my forehead and softly murmuring voices. A drilling pain in my head and a horrible tearing feeling in my limbs. Bitter cold, turning instantaneously into awful heat with no notice. And the memory of not being able to _breathe_. Gasping, coughing, spluttering, and yet being without _air_ …

"Easy," murmurs Jem, pushing me back into the pillows and only now do I realize my futile attempt at sitting up. I let myself sink back, breathing slowly and deliberately and as deeply as the heavy feeling pressing down on my chest allows.

Another thought pushes to the forefront of my mind. "For how long… for how long, have I been ill?" I am almost afraid of the answer.

"Two weeks," Jem replies.

 _Two weeks_? My head spins.

But that would mean… that would mean… if I have been ill for two weeks and… and what did Jem say about that flu? "The flu that has been infecting thousands of people for weeks now – and killing them!" That's what he said. But doesn't that mean…?

"Jem," I whisper, my voice strangled with fear, "Jem, tell me – is anyone else ill?"

Or dead?

Fearfully, I peer up at him and when I notice him hesitate, an icy cold feeling takes hold within me.

"Shirley fell ill a couple of days before you did, but he wasn't in nearly as bad a shape," he finally answers. "He spent some days in a hospital in Le Tréport, but he's been released since. He's mostly fine, from what I gather."

I feel a small fragment of fear subsiding, but the bigger portion still holds me in its clutches, immobilizing me.

Jem is still speaking, "Fred had a nasty bout. He developed a serious case of pneumonia and spent almost a month in a hospital in Liverpool. They transferred him to a convalescent home in Wokingham some days ago. That's quite close to Taplow, where you used to be. He's getting better but doesn't expect to be back with his unit before next year at the earliest."

Frowning, I consider him.

Who is Fred?

Noticing my confusion, Jem explains, "Fred Arnold. Una's husband. You remember Fred?"

Oh. That Fred. I nod slowly.

He's Jem's brother-in-law of course, and even if there is nothing else to connect them, they both married a daughter of the manse. It's quite natural that he would be better informed about Fred than I am, especially seeing as all I know about Fred Arnold is that he has too big a nose and spent the war in a safe position with a reserve battalion in England.

Which leads me to the question…

"That flu…" I begin, almost not daring to speak out loud the question I need answered. "That flu… are people only falling ill in Europe or…"

Or at home as well?

Jem sighs.

The hand of fear is back, grasping and clutching tightly.

"I think it's everywhere." he finally admits.

So that means it's at home as well.

I only manage one word. "Who?"

Then, suddenly, there is the memory of a train station in Camiers and the same question and its horrible answer. I don't know if I could bear it, if I were to get a similar answer.

And yet, I search Jem's gaze, fearfully so. He sighs a second time.

"Mum was ill and so was Nan," he finally confesses. "They fell ill last month, but they both seem to be over the worst of it."

"Last month? How have I heard nothing about this?" I demand to know. I try to sit up, but the world immediately starts spinning again and the next second, Jem is pushing me back into the pillows.

"Hey, take it easy," he tries to calm me. "Dad wired me about it, but they decided not to inform you. They didn't want to upset you any further."

I glare at him angrily, and seem to succeed slightly better than before, for Jem leans back a little and raises a placating hand.

"I don't need anyone to protect me." I inform him, as haughtily as possible, considering that I am too weak to sit up and probably look like death warmed up, too.

Jem raises a sceptical eyebrow. "You sure about that? As out of it as you were last month, I wouldn't bet on it. Your letters made me shiver every time."

"I wrote very regularly," I defend myself.

"Yeah, but what kind of letters!" Jem snorts. "Never, in all these years, did I get stranger letters from you. Very short, but somehow disjointed and… just strange. As if you weren't even really there. At home, they noticed as well and Dad decided not to burden you any further."

I press my lips together. "Well, he was wrong," I announce. "But now, tell! How are Mum and Nan doing?"

"Better," Jem reassures quickly. "Nan was back on her feet rather quickly, actually. It took Mum a bit longer, but she's also on the mend. John was quite ill, but according to Una's letter, he is slowly starting to get better as well."

"John?" I ask.

"Meredith. The reverend," Jem clarifies in turn.

I nod. Of course. His father-in-law.

"Una herself and Rosemary are fine. As is Carl, as far as I know, wherever he and his submarine currently are," Jem adds.

Again, I nod. Una and Rosemary, both so very kind, and Carl, my friend from easier times, whom I haven't seen in so many years. Still, I am relieved to hear that he is well.

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly. This conversation exhausts me far more than it has any right to.

"How are the others?" I wonder, eyes still closed.

"Dad and Faith are fine as well, which is a bit of a miracle, seeing as they are doing the best to keep the entire Glen going." answers Jem and there's relief in his voice and slight disbelief and an over-arching pride, as there always is, when he speaks of his wife.

Slowly, I open my eyes. "Di?" I want to know.

Jem averts his gaze.

"Jem!" I demand. "What about Di?"

It is only with some hesitation that he finally answers. "The cities were hit worse than the more rural places. They are… they are both very ill. Mildred is in hospital. She is – in bad shape. Di is with the Fords. Dad asked Owen to check in on her when no one had heard anything from her for some time. She's not as ill as Mildred, but still very unwell."

The weight on my chest presses down more heavily. Di…

"Nan wanted to go see her the moment she was back on her feet. Dad forbade it though. Nan's still far too weak. Besides, it's not as if she can take Connie to Toronto right now and she'd never leave her, so…" Jem shrugs.

"How are the children?" I inquire, even while my thoughts are still revolving around Di and somehow, around Mildred as well. I don't know her personally, but I've come to appreciate her letters and I know that her death would destroy my sister's world, just as surely Jerry's death destroyed Nan's.

"Connie and Sara are alright." Jem answers slowly.

Which means...

Di and Mildred immediately fade into the background.

"Ian?" I ask softly.

His face freezes.

"He is… better… he is better." he finally manages to choke out, voice flat.

"Oh Jem," I whisper.

He swallows hard. "Faith wrote that it didn't look very good for a few days there, but he's a strong little fellow. He fought like a lion and two days ago, I received the telegram saying he'd be alright. But I'm telling you –"

Breathing heavily, he lowers his head, pushing a hand through his hair. I force one of my shaking arms to rise and gently touch his shoulder, in an inadequate attempt at comfort. Some moments pass in silence.

When Jem speaks again, his voice sounds dull. "You know, I have always been afraid of… I've seen so little of Ian and haven't seen Sara even once and the longer I'm here… the more I became afraid that I wouldn't know them. I'm not deluding myself here – for the two of them, I am a complete stranger and that's difficult enough to bear. Even more afraid was I that _I_ wouldn't know them. That they'd be just some children and that… that I wouldn't be able to love them."

The thought is so absolutely absurd that I can't help wondering how Jem could ever think something like that. At the same time, it pains me to know how this must weigh on him.

"But you already do love them," I remind him gently.

Jem raises his head, looks at me. "I wasn't sure. The longer all of this took, the less sure I was," he admits hesitatingly, "And then – and then I got the news that Ian was ill and suddenly… I was a wreck, Rilla. Good for nothing. I didn't eat, didn't sleep and the only think I knew without a doubt was that – if he hadn't made it, I wouldn't have been able to rest until I had found whoever or whatever was responsible for his death. I would have gone to the end of the earth and it wouldn't have been far enough."

I nod, gently squeezing his shoulder, before I lower my arm again, no longer being able to hold it up. "Because you do love him," I remark.

"Because I do love him," repeats Jem and there is such an awe in his eyes that it is both wonderful and unbearable.

"And he is alright," I add.

Jem meets my gaze and tries for a smile. It's apparent how shaken he is still, and the smile come out a little lop-sided, but it's better than nothing.

It gives me enough strength to ask the question that has been burning on my tongue ever since I realized that so far, Jem has only been telling me of those who survived. And didn't he say that the flu has been infecting thousands of people for weeks now – and killing them?

"Are you going to tell me – who didn't make it?" I ask, knowing my voice is shaking and not caring a bit.

The smile drops from Jem's lips. His eyes are troubled. He takes a moment to collect himself, but then he does answer, and I don't know whether to be grateful for his honesty or not.

"Una's father-in-law was the first to die, back in late September," he begins.

I nod, trying not to appear impatient. It might be awful of me, but Reverend Arnold means nothing to me and I have seen the deaths of too many men who mean nothing to me, to now feel anything but a vague sense of regret for those to whom he did _mean_ something.

"Who else?" I ask, because somehow, I know that there must be others.

Jem takes a deep breath. "Bruce."

Now, I do lower my head in sadness, closing my eyes for a moment or two.

Bruce Meredith, this honest, sincere, gentle lad. He was – how old? Fourteen? It's the tragedy of a young life, cut short far too soon. A tragedy he shares with so many victims of this war, some barely older than he was. It's such a – _waste_. It's the future itself that is lost when the young leave and I'm not sure I like what remains.

"And Susan," Jem adds quietly and suddenly, my body feels strangely light. I keep my eyes closed and yet, I can feel everything around me starting to spin. I'm adrift.

Susan. Susan who was always so much more than a housekeeper to us children, sometimes even akin to a second mother. The Susan of monkey-face cookies and warm milk with honey, in whose kitchen we always found a safe haven when our childish heart had been hurt. Oh, she never held back from giving us a piece of her mind when she felt we had earned it. And yet, at the same time, she was always ready to protect us, ever willing to step between us and whatever adversity we encountered. When I told her about my plans to go to nursing school, she left no doubt at all about it being improper in her eyes – and yet, you wouldn't have thought it from the way she defended me against the gossips of the Glen.

I open my eyes, wanting to speak, and realize I have nothing to say. The world is still spinning.

"Yes, I know," sighs Jem and I have a feeling his thoughts aren't so very different from mine.

Susan and Bruce and even Reverend Arnold – and, if Jem is right, countless others all over the world. Won't Death _ever_ get enough?

Jem falls silent, his gaze turning inwards. And I lie there, looking at him, trying to find in his expression the answer to a question I've been wanting to ask ever since I first opened my eyes and which I still haven't been able to put into words.

"Jem?" I finally manage, voice quiet.

He raises his head, gives me a fleeting smile. "What is it?" he asks kindly.

I attempt to take a breath, but the weight on my chest makes it impossible. I'm cold. My hands ball into fists. "Jem, how is… how is…?" I try and yet fail to ask what I need to know and yet dread hearing.

I can't say his name. I know I wouldn't be able to bear if – if the answer were a bad one.

"Your husband?" Jem finishes for me.

I manage a nod, just the slightest of movements.

"He's alright," he assures.

And just like that, I can breathe easier again.

"I mean, he's quite mad with worry," Jem continues. "I almost feel sorry for him, poor sod, him stuck in France and you out here. I had to wire him every day and give him updates on your condition, even though I wasn't getting out of Eastbourne myself, what with all the flu patients and the wounded of the last battles. I only arrived this morning and what a coincidence it is that you woke up today of all days?"

I look at him, frowning. "If you only arrived this morning, how…?" I ask slowly.

"How could I send a telegram to Ken every day?" Jem, once more, finishes my question. "That's easy. I had poor Lionel send _me_ a telegram every day as well."

My frown deepens. Who's Lionel?

Jem raises a questioning eyebrow. "Lionel Everett? Doesn't ring any bells? We studied together. He's a doctor here and I asked him to keep a discreet eye on you, even before your illness. We were – we were all quite worried for you after…" He breaks off and I can't blame him.

We will need to talk about Walter. I know that, same as he. But not today – not today.

Pushing the thought away, I concentrate on Lionel Everett instead. A vague memory of that young doctor rises within me. The doctor who kept appearing on my ward, asking how I was doing. Might that have been Lionel Everett?

"I think I know him," I reply thoughtfully. "Though he was anything but discreet. More like… a bit creepy."

A short, barking laugh escapes Jem and I'm _glad_ to hear it. "I'll be sure to let him know," he promises.

But Lionel Everett really doesn't interest me all that much and I don't want to think about Walter, not _now_ , so my thoughts are drawn, quite naturally, back to my husband.

"Do you think…" I begin hesitatingly, "do you think if maybe, it might be possible for Ken… I mean, I have no idea if he's due any leave, but maybe…?" The words won't come. Angrily, I bury my fingernails in the palm of my hand before slowly opening my fists once more.

Jem shakes his head. There is sympathy in his eyes when he answers, "If he had seen any way at all to come, he would have been here long ago. If I say he was mad with worry, I'm not exaggerating. If I ever doubted the sincerity of his feelings for you, I wouldn't dare doubt them now. I know he wanted nothing more but to be with you, but he couldn't leave his men. First, the offensives of the past weeks and then the attack on Mons –"

"Mons?" I interrupt, "Mons, Belgium?"

"Do you know any other Mons?" asks Jem, raising both eyebrows so that they disappear into his hairline.

Slowly, I shake my head. I only know the one Mons, that Belgian town where the British Expeditionary Corps was so soundly defeated more than four years ago. Only… the last thing I remember from before my illness was the Canadians taking Cambrai and Valenciennes, and for them to suddenly be in Belgium now… I mean, sure, a lot can happen in two weeks, but… Belgium? _Mons_?

"Anyway, he wired today to tell me that his battalion has been chosen to be part of the occupational force, so I don't think he'll be able to come to you anytime soon. What I do know, however, is that I'll send him today's telegram quite gladly, for a change," Jem finishes with a smile.

I, on the other hand, pause, confused. "Occupation of what?" I want to know.

"Why, Germany of course," is Jem's easy answer.

 _Germany_?

I blink.

Occupation of Germany?

What? Why? _How_?

For a moment, Jem's confusion mirrors mine, only for his expression to suddenly brighten in understanding. "Ah, I forgot. You haven't heard about this, have you? Well, the armistice was signed yesterday," he explains. "The war is over."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Over there' from 1917 (lyrics and music by George M. Cohan)._


	62. Grave, thy victory

_November 13_ _th_ _, 1918  
Canadian Convalescent Officers' Hospital, Matlock Bath, England_

 **Grave, thy victory**

If I were dead, I couldn't possibly look worse than I do now.

My face is so pale it's colourless, my cheeks are sunken in, the cheekbones razor-sharp (and not in a good way), and my eyes shaded. Even my nose seems somehow larger and pointier than I remember.

Frowning, I consider my reflection in the small handheld mirror and am suddenly thankful that Ken won't get to see me like this. Not only because it would cause him to worry awfully, but because no woman wants her husband to see her this way. I am no exception. Even years of war have not robbed me of these small spurts of vanity.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the door opening. Seconds later, Jem's voice travels over to me, "I'd spare myself that sight, if I were you." But he sounds more amused than worried.

"Oh, ha-ha," I murmur, feeling not amused at all. Instead of turning to look at him, I raise the mirror a little to inspect my reflection's hair. It's long and knotted and lifeless, even the colour seeming paler than it used to be. But before I get a chance to decide whether that might be down to the light or not, the mirror is plucked from my hand.

"Hey!" I protest half-heartedly, finally looking up at Jem. He is standing next to the bed, turning the mirror with his long fingers.

"Doctor's orders," he informs me casually, putting the mirror down on my bed stand and plunking himself down onto a chair by my side.

"Any news from Di or Mildred?" I demand to know, the mirror already forgotten.

Jem shakes his head and I press my lips together, feeling frustrated. "Unfortunately, not. What about you? Feeling better today?" he asks, eyeing me closely.

I roll my eyes as expressively as possible.

My brother laughs quietly. "If you are good, I'll let you read this," he remarks, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. A telegram.

"Give!" I demand, stretching out a hand, but Jem holds the paper out of my reach.

For a moment, I consider whether there's a realistic chance of me getting at that telegram without his cooperation, but he is stronger than me at the best of times and these really aren't my best times by any stretch. "I'm feeling better," I answer, grudgingly. "I'm sitting up, am I not?"

Jem scoffs. "You managed to pull yourself up and lean against the headboard," he corrects. "What's betting that you'd you crumble in on yourself without that headboard supporting you?"

He'd win that bet easily. I have no doubts about that. But there's no way I could ever admit to that, so I just tilt my head forward a little and try to look as haughtily as possible.

"That's what I thought," grins Jem in reply, obviously interpreting my expression quite correctly.

Wordlessly, I reach for the telegram again. Again, he holds it out of reach.

"Did you eat anything?" he asks.

Dear God. _Doctors_!

"I had some tea and broth for supper yesterday and warm milk and toast for breakfast this morning," I reply, studiously bored, and nod towards a tray on the window sill which still holds half a glass of milk – not warm anymore – and a plate with slices of toast. My colleagues were a little too confident in the amount of food they offered me and my stomach, unused to food as it is right now.

Jem leans back in his chair and takes a slice of toasts. "You don't mind, do you?" he inquires, obviously entirely rhetorically. He escapes a snappish answer by finally handing over the telegram. With greedy fingers, I reach for it, Jem's insolence entirely forgotten.

It's from Ken and it consists of only two words.

 _Thank God._

And maybe it's that _he_ , of all people, invokes _God_ , of all things, that makes me realize how very relieved he must be.

Again, and again, my eyes take in these two words, as if they were somehow able to bring him closer to me. But they remain still and unchanged, and so I finally fold up the telegram with a soft sigh. Still, I don't let go of it, keep it between my fingers. It's his words in there, after all.

"You should write to him," Jem remarks, suddenly serious. "I can imagine that he went through his own private hell these past few weeks and I think it would help him to hear from you directly. I had one or two letters from him, beside the telegrams, and what can I say? He was very… troubled."

Which is probably Jem-like, an understatement. My heart clenches painfully at the thought, before it starts beating again, just a little too fast.

"In any case, it was a lucky coincidence that you ended up in the same hospital as Lionel and that the Sisters' Hospital in Buxton was already filled to the brim, so that they couldn't transfer you there. This way, at least, Lionel could keep an eye on you and his daily reports probably kept your husband from going mad," Jem adds with a lop-sided smile and takes another slice of toast.

For a moment, I consider his words, turning them around in my mind a little, before concentrating on the least tricky information in it.

"How come you know about our marriage?" I ask.

Jem shrugs. "I winkled it out of Walt when he had a week of leave to England back in the summer," he answers, and his tone is so deliberately casual that I immediately know that the mention of Walter hurts him as much as it hurts me.

I need a moment until the pain subsides enough to allow me to speak.

"How did you guess?" I then ask, because I know without a doubt that only a direct question could have made Walter divulge that particular information. He is – _was_ – not one to prattle about other people's secrets, but equally, he is – _was_ – not very good at lying, even before becoming a priest.

A small smile appears on Jem's face. "Did that husband of yours ever tell you that back in January I went to speak with him privately after you and Walt had left the hospital?" he enquires, raising an eyebrow.

I shake my head, eyeing him suspiciously.

Before answering, Jem takes a hearty bite out of his third slice of toast – or is it the fourth already? "I asked him about his intentions towards you. As your older brother, I think it was my due," he informs me.

" _And?_ " I ask sharply, primarily to suppress the impulse to explain to him in detail that neither he, as my oldest brother, nor _anyone else_ possesses that particular right.

"Well, he managed to convince me of the seriousness of his feelings for you," Jem answers easily. "And after I got you so far that you wouldn't categorically rule out a war wedding anymore, I had an inkling it would happen rather sooner than later. And when Walt mentioned in passing that he had seen both of you in Paris in June, I only had to add 2 and 2 and not end up with 5."

"Impressive," I retort, making my voice sound as unimpressed as I can manage.

Jem smirks. "Your decision to make such a secret out of the wedding did surprise me though," he remarks, chewing on toast number five by now.

I shrug. "We married in secret, so I could continue my work," I remind him. "Had we written home about it and the letter be read by one of the censors…" I make a small gesture to indicate the consequences of such an occurrence.

"Maybe," Jem replies. "But I still find it hard to believe there was no way at all of getting a note through, if you had _really_ wanted to. Letters from England aren't censored, after all. So, what's the real reason?"

For a second, I consider dismissing his question with a flippant comment and changing the subject, but then…

"I tried to write," I admit hesitatingly. "I… I promised Walter and I really did try. But somehow, I never found the right words. When it's about getting the right words to paper, I am more like you and Shirley. I didn't inherit Mum's talent for writing. And so… every attempt to write it down sounded stupid and clumsy. What was I supposed to say anyway? That I married a man no one knew I had more than passing contact with in the first place? How do you write that?"

"That they didn't know about the two of you being close is solely because you didn't write them about it," Jem points out practically.

I sigh, nodding slightly. He's right about that, I suppose.

"What does Ken have to say on the matter?" Jem enquires next. He holds up the last slice of toast to offer it to me. When I decline with a shake of my head, he takes a large bite.

"I think it doesn't matter to him much either way. He is… he has been here for such a long time that Canada is very far away. I don't know how to describe it any better," I answer.

"He's been here no longer than I," Jem reminds me, chewing on the last bite of toast.

Slowly, I nod. "That's true. But you have Faith and the children to tie you to home. And Ken and you, you are… different. I've never met anyone who can compartmentalize his feelings as effectively as Ken does. It's his way of dealing with all this, I think. Here, he is Colonel Ford and as long as he is that, he can't also be Ken Ford of Toronto. That's why home feels more removed to him than it does to you and me. Does that make any sense at all?" Questioningly, I look at Jem.

"Hmh. I think it does, at least in an abstract kind of way," he responds thoughtfully.

"Yes, well, anyway. That's why he left it up to me. And I tried to write – because I promised Walter if nothing else –, but… I haven't written a meaningful letter home since I arrived in Europe. I try and try and yet, I don't manage to. As if the connection were somehow…" I pause, searching for words, "Somehow broken and I can't seem to repair it anymore. And it's not even solely about me. Every day in October, I tried to…. I tried to…" Helplessly, I break off. My throat constricts painfully.

"You tried to write about Walter's death," Jem finishes gently.

I nod, silent. I don't trust my voice.

"Maybe it would be easier to talk about it?" Jem suggests. There's sympathy in his eyes.

For several seconds, I feel inside of me, trying to gauge my own emotions, but then, very slowly, I nod. "It was… and this might sound absolutely crazy right now but… it was peaceful. _He_ was at peace. He knew he was dying and it seemed to me that… that he had accepted it. He was very calm and collected. I wanted… I tried to hold him back. But he said it was too late. That he had known for a while that it was too late. He… he even tried to comfort _me_!" A slightly hysterical laugh escapes my lips.

Jem reaches out a hand and squeezes my arm. "In the end, he was better equipped to deal with this than any of us," he replies quietly. "I hadn't necessarily thought it would play out that way, but in the end, I worried about Walt the least."

"You worry?" I ask, and I know that it might be considered a stupid question – after all, _I_ worry as well – but still…

"Of course, I worry. I'm your big brother, am I not? I'm supposed to be looking out for the lot of you," Jem explains with a crooked little smile.

I blink, slightly confused. "Why would you feel the need to do that?" It doesn't seem very logical, for him to burden himself with such a task. Even more so, as he is bound to fail.

"It's curious, isn't it? That we believe some duties are just given to us. And yet, I've never fully been able to shake the feeling of being responsible for you all," Jem answers pensively.

"We make our own decisions," I point out. "You're not responsible for those."

He shakes his head slowly. "But that doesn't mean I didn't try to influence those decisions. I begged them not to come to Europe. Shirley and Walter, Jerry, too," he explains.

"Really?" I ask, surprised. "You didn't try to influence me at all." And indeed, during those weeks when I fought for permission to join the army, Jem – who probably knew the most about what awaited me – remained very quiet on the matter. _Suspiciously_ quiet.

Now, too, he eyes me silently, looking almost a little… wary. "If I tell you the truth… do you promise not to hit me?" he asks.

I snort. "I couldn't hit you even if I wanted to," I point out, raising my weak arm an inch or two.

"Ah, yes," Jem nods, relaxing again. He doesn't seem to notice that I didn't promise not to hit him when my strength has returned to me.

"The thing is," he remarks, "I may not have written to you, but I did write to Mum and Dad. I tried very hard to convince them to withhold their permission and thus, stop you from joining up."

I stare at him, speechless. He avoids my gaze.

"You did _what_?" I finally splutter.

Jem raises both hands, obviously in an ill-advised attempt at placating me. "I only tried to protect you! You have to understand," he pleads. "I had already seen so much of this war and… the thought of my baby sister having to see that as well, made me feel sick. It was bad enough with Walter and Shirley, but for one of you girls… I wasn't sure if I would have been able to bear the thought of this war hurting you."

His tone is apologetic, and his words are sincere enough to make my anger abate a little. "But why didn't you speak directly to me about it?" I ask, trying for calm.

Smiling, Jem shakes his head. "Because I knew you'd be too stubborn to listen. You're too similar to me in that respect," he answers. "I thought I had a better chance with Mum and Dad, though that intervention ended up being as unsuccessful as the one with Ken later on."

I look at him through narrowed eyes. " _What_ about Ken?" I want to know.

Jem groans softly. He obviously didn't intend to share that particular information with me.

"Jem! Tell!" I demand as insistently as my current physical condition allows.

For a moment, I think he'll try to avoid answering, but then he sighs and gives in. "I don't know if he told you, but we saw each other when he was in Bexhill. He asked me to inform him, if anything happened to you."

I nod, feeling impatient. In the beginning, Walter was my contact in Europe, to be informed alongside my parents if… well, if there was anything to be informed about. When Walter went back to France, I substituted Jem as contact person, simply because he was safe and static in England. That Ken asked him for this favour doesn't surprise me. I, in turn, asked Persis for the same promise. That, is all very logical and not news to me either. It doesn't, however, explain why Jem should be so reluctant to tell me what _else_ they talked about back in Bexhill.

"Yes. Anyway. In return, I asked him for a promise of my own," Jem continues, though he obviously feels very uncomfortable to be doing so.

"Which promise?" I want to know.

"Ah, well…" Jem hedges. "See, I had an inkling you'd be trying to get around the ban on married nursing sisters. And that's why I made Ken promise that he'd do his utmost to get you to leave the CAMC after your wedding, if not earlier."

For several seconds, I consider him silently. "He didn't even try," I finally remark. "He didn't like it any more than you did, but he never even tried to convince me."

Jem laughs drily. "Of course, he didn't. I realized too late that he wouldn't feel bound by any promise to me, if he thought it wasn't in your best interest. I wouldn't hesitate even a second to break any promise when it comes to Faith's wellbeing, why would Ken act differently?"

Slowly, I nod. "Still, I wish you would have come to me directly instead of discussing it with other people behind my back," I remark, almost surprised at how mature and composed I sound.

With a soft sigh, Jem nods. "You're right and I'm sorry. It's just… when I spoke to Ken, so much had already happened. I had already failed Nan when I couldn't bring Jerry back to her. I mean, I didn't even manage to see him before…" He lets the sentence hang. His laugh sounds bitter.

I nod slightly. What I don't say is that I am almost glad that Jem didn't get to see Jerry again. May he remember his best friend as he the man he used to be and not as the man the war made him.

"And I wasn't able to protect Walter and Shirley either – as we have seen," Jem adds in a strained voice. "You were the only one I had at least a theoretical chance of protecting. And after what happened in London…" He shrugs.

A light shiver runs down my spine when I think of that day in London. _Ritschratsch_.

Silence settles between us. From outside, we can hear a raven croak.

"Do you regret it?" I finally ask. "Having come here?

Thoughtfully, Jem looks at me. Seconds pass. "Truth to be told… yes, I do," he then answers.

I thought it would surprise me. But it doesn't.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," he continues slowly. "When I left… that was egoistic of me. It was supposed to be one last adventure and for that, I left my family. I mean, don't get me wrong, it was always about helping, but I would be lying if I said it wasn't also the promised fulfilment of a boyhood dream. And what was supposed to be a short adventure, over in a few months, ended up lasting more than four years. Four years! Just imagine!" He shakes his head, disbelievingly.

"If you could turn back time…" I begin, cautiously.

Jem interrupts me with a nod. "I would do it. I would go back and convince stupid, selfish me to stay with his family where he belongs. If I think about everything I have missed… the thought alone makes me feel sick. Maybe that's why I tried so desperately to stop you from going as well."

His gaze meets mine, now alert. "You'd still go, wouldn't you?" he asks.

I nod, a little haltingly. "I think I would," I admit. "That doesn't mean that there's nothing I regret and that… well, that all this won't stay with me for as long as I live, but… here, I found a purpose for myself that I never had before. And what you left, I only found after coming here."

"Walter was the same," Jem replies softly. "He didn't regret it for a second. I try… ever since I got that telegram from Persis – and one day, you'll have to explain to me _why_ it was Persis who sent it – I have tried… tried to cling to that. To the thought that he wouldn't change anything, probably not even now. I think that makes it a little easier to bear. Easier than with Jerry at least."

He breaks off and shakes his head slightly. "Jerry hated it, you know?" he continues after a moment of tense silence. "Long before being wounded, he hated it. He… he really struggled, the entire time. He couldn't reconcile what he saw with what he believed in. But then, he was the only one of us who was truly out there to kill."

His gaze falls on me. He pauses. "Except for…"

Except for Ken. Yes.

Quickly, Jem adds, "And with regard to Shirley… we can only guess when it comes to him, can't we? He never _seems_ as if any of this particularly bothers him, but then… I was never very good at knowing what's going on in Shirley's head. The two of you were always much closer."

A memory appears in front of my eyes. Shirley in Étaples, his hair parted sharply, his uniform impossibly neat, so much so that he almost looked like a caricature of himself. And, though he talked quite normally, his absolute inability to bear even the slightest touch. Shirley, as hard as he sometimes is to read, is very obviously not untouched by this war.

"I think it's harder for him than he lets on," I try to explain, "So he overcompensates. Do you remember how he always detested disorder? Well, now it's as if he's trying to combat the chaos around him with absolute order. The harder it gets, he more he controls himself, because there's nothing else he _can_ control. And thus, it gets even harder for him to allow anyone to get through to him, for fear of his order being thrown into disarray. Does that make any sense?"

"think I know what you're trying to say," Jem confirms thoughtfully. "I have to take your word for it anyway. I… I don't understand Shirley very well. Carl either, while we're at it."

"Is he still in his submarine?" I ask. For letters from Carl are still a rare commodity.

Jem nods. "As far as I know, yes. But we never managed to meet up, even when he was in England."

I make a thoughtful sound in reply. "Shirley met him a couple of times, I think. He seems to be alright – but even if he weren't, Shirley would hardly go and tell a third person about it."

"No, probably not," Jem agrees, but he sounds absent-minded. His brow is furrowed.

Silence settles between us. I watch him for several moments, while he is still deep in thought. "Jem?" I then ask cautiously. "It isn't your fault. You don't have to protect us. You _can't_ protect us."

"No, I guess not. But I should be able to protect my family at least and I'm not doing a very good job of that either, am I?" Jem retorts and there is bitterness and pain and regret in his eyes. It hurts to see him like that. He's thinking of Ian's illness and Sara, whom has never seen, and Faith, whom he has left for such a long time.

And because I, once again, have no words, I lean forward a little, putting my arms around his neck, and hold him, my face pressed into his shoulder. And Jem, in contrast to Shirley, accepts the hug, gently stroking my back.

"You just asked me whether I would go back," he murmurs into my hair after several moments, "And I would, but not to prevent myself from joining up. If I could, I'd go to Sarajevo in June 1914 and put a bullet in that assassin's head before he even has a chance to unleash this godforsaken war. I have never killed anyone and the lives I ended were already lost, but… but if I could, I would go back and kill him."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling' from 1911 (source unknown)._


	63. From an aching heart

_November 20_ _th_ _, 1918  
Canadian Convalescent Officers' Hospital, Matlock Bath, England_

 **From an aching heart**

One foot in front of the other. Always one foot in front of the other.

Frowning, I look down the stairs. It can't be that hard, can it? It's just a staircase. I've walked down countless of staircases in my life. Somehow, I will get down this one as well.

Sure, I have to admit that I've also never spent three weeks on bed rest in my life. But being on bed rest is supposedly restorative, so that ought to make up for my weak legs, right?

I grip the handrail tighter, bear down on it a bit with my forearm, before I raise one foot and put it down one step lower. When it stands securely, I let the other foot follow. There. The first step is behind me. Time to tackle the second one.

Very slowly and very focused, I climb down the stairs, tongue pushed between my teeth in concentration and gaze firmly fixed on my treacherous feet. It takes far longer than it _should_ take anyone to walk down a simple staircase. At least I remain upright throughout, which really isn't so very bad, considering.

Once I'm at the bottom, I lean against the wall for a moment, trying to get both my breath and my heartbeat back under control, for both lungs and heart are protesting vehemently at this sudden physical exertion. My legs, too, are shaking and my head is spinning. I close my eyes, lean my head back against the wall, and wait.

It takes several minutes for my body to calm down, so that I am reasonably sure to have it back under control. Carefully, I move away from the wall, then pause for a second to make sure that my legs will carry me. Only then do I slowly walk over to the ward door. Once there, I gather myself before my arms take over the exhaustive role from my shaky legs and move to push the door open.

I really do try my best to close the door quietly, once my legs have carried me through it with no little protest, but the knob slips from my sweaty hands and my tired arms are not fast enough to catch it back. The door falls shut behind me and the resulting bang is loud enough to make every person in the room, patients and personnel alike, turn around and look at me.

"Sorry," I murmur into the sudden silence, ducking slightly. My hand reaches back for the doorknob, primarily to have something to hold on to.

Unfortunately, the noise has also alerted Matron Rafferty. Without haste but very decidedly, she walks towards me. Her expression has been moulded into a kind of neutral mask, the mastery of which seems to be a requirement for matrons all over the world.

"Miss Blythe. May I ask what you are doing down here?" she asks. Her voice isn't unkind. Not even surprised. More… long-suffering and a little annoyed.

I grip the door knob tighter. My legs are protesting against having to stand up for this long. "Working?" I respond and can't prevent it turning into a question.

The matron sighs. "You can barely keep yourself upright," she points out. "How do you intend to work?"

Not a bad question, admittedly. But I'm still hoping that my shaking legs will get used to carrying me, if they only do it long enough.

"I've been lying in bed and doing nothing for a week now!" I therefore try to argue.

"And you're going to remain in bed for at least another week. And even after that, you're certainly not going back to work right away. Your name is still down for transferal to Northwood. When they have a place for you, we'll send you there," replies Miss Rafferty, calm, but firm.

Northwood is a hospital specifically for Canadian nurses, not far away in Buxton, which will forever be tied to the memory of Jerry for me. Wild horses couldn't drag me there, for a variety of reasons.

However, much to my irritation, the only thing I can come up with in response is, "I don't want to go to Northwood." That I sound like a petulant child even to my own ears, doesn't really improve matters.

Surprisingly though, I spy a tiny little smile flitting over Matron's face, before she has it back under control. "What do you want to do instead?" she asks. I can't tell what she is thinking.

"Work," I insist. The week that passed after Jem's short visit, was, to be honest, hard enough to bear. Of course, I spent a good chunk of it asleep and the daily mail was a welcome distraction but seeing as I couldn't sleep all the time and too much reading made my head hurt, I also spent long hours just staring at the ceiling and thinking thoughts I didn't want to think.

Matron Rafferty makes a thoughtful sound, "Let me rephrase: What do you want to do that you are actually physically capable of doing?"

Aha! Trick question. Warily, I consider her. Her face is, once again, set in that neutral mask, but there's an amused little twinkle in her eyes, telling me I haven't lost yet. "Work _a little bit_?" I try tentatively.

This time, she actually does laugh. "And how do picture that happening on purely practical grounds?" she asks.

I am saved from having to think up an answer, when another person comes to stand beside us. When I turn my head slightly, I recognize Lionel and have to smile. Lionel, I am sure, will help me out.

And indeed.

"If I might be so bold as to make a suggestion," he begins in his slightly too verbose way of speaking, "Maybe it would be advisable for Miss Blythe to spend some time with the patients at first? I am confident that she is strong enough to converse with them, or else read to them. If that functions to everyone's satisfaction, we might consider adding other tasks over the coming days."

Lionel, there is no question about it, is quite wonderful.

Miss Rafferty's gaze moves from him to me, before she shakes her head good-naturedly. "Very well, Miss Blythe. I will give my permission, so as long as you remain seated the entire time. And don't even _think_ about doing actual nursing!" This, accompanied by a finger raised in warning.

Naturally, her restrictions bother me a little bit. However, I have to admit that I am not entirely sure how long I will be able to remain standing on my own feet anyway. Maybe sitting down and talking and reading is truly the most sensible task I can undertake right now. And so, it is with uncrossed fingers that I promise, "I won't."

Matron regards me with one last, searching look, but the result seems to satisfy her, for she nods at me. "Good. I will trust your word on this. And I am asking you, Dr Everett, to keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn't tire herself out."

"I can gladly assure you that I will most certainly do this," Lionel replies, and I know that to be right. He'll have to answer to Jem if I overexert myself on his watch and there are certainly more pleasant things in life than having to answer to Jem

Thus assured, Matron Rafferty takes her leave, giving both of us a nod in the process. She turns, crossing the ward in firm but unhurried steps and it is only at the door when she pauses and takes one more look at me. "I am relieved that you are feeling well," she says, "In… in more than one respect."

Her face is kind and my answering smile comes naturally. For a moment, she returns the smile, before turning back around and reaching for the very doorknob that earlier slipped through my fingers. When the door closes behind her, it does so much more softly than it did for me.

I turn back towards Lionel. "Thanks for your support," I thank him sincerely.

He nods, clears his throat once. "I was glad to be able to assist you. If you allow it, however, it is of great importance to me to ask you not to strain yourself. I assured Jem that I would make your well-being my personal responsibility and…" Wringing his hands slightly, he lets the sentence hang, unfinished.

"It's alright," I calm him with a smile. "I'll be good."

And I really am. The patients, some of whom I remember from my time on night duty, are cautious at first, as if unsure how to treat me. But after a while, they start to relax. Besides, it's always a little more subdued among officers than with ORs, who are much quicker with a cheeky comment.

However, every soldier I met, be it officer or private, was unfailingly polite and gracious towards us nurses. So, it really doesn't surprise me to be offered a cushy chair within minutes, nor to have two strong officers carry the chair throughout the room for me, for the whole afternoon. Every time either the matron or Lionel sticks their head through the door, they find me sitting down, just as promised, and I notice their checks becoming more seldom as time passes.

I spend my afternoon asking the men about their families and their homes; reading out loud the first three chapters of a novel quickly procured from the library of this erstwhile-hotel; and helping a lieutenant with a wounded arm to write a letter home. It is… different from the work I am used to, there's no doubt about that. But the men are kind and the novel is fairly interesting and even the weather outside is much more agreeable than would be expected from England in late November.

And besides all this, I have to grudgingly admit that sitting and talking and writing is much more strenuous than I would have thought. My legs are quite grateful at only having to take some steps once in a while when I move from one bed to the next, but all this is still more exhausting than it should be. Maybe part of it is also down to the fact that it's been a long while since I consciously spent any time in the company of this many people.

Whatever it is, after two or three hours, I find myself growing tired and am even a little grateful when the matron takes one good look at me during one of her checks and orders me up to bed. More agreeable than I usually would be, I get up from my chair, promise the men to tackle the fourth chapter tomorrow, and direct my still shaky steps towards the door. Matron still stands there, waiting for me to follow her orders.

I have almost reached her, when one of the patients intercepts me. "Sister?" he asks politely. I stop next to him, putting one hand on his bedframe for stability and look at him questioningly. I think I remember him from the dark weeks.

"I just want to say – and I think I am speaking for many of us here – that we are glad you are feeling better. We were a little worried… how shall I put it? That our nickname would turn out a little _too_ spot-on in the end. We wanted to apologise for that as well. For the nickname. We didn't mean to be disrespectful," he declares earnestly.

Of course. _The Ghostly Nurse_. If things had lain a little different, I might truly have become that. The thought is… strange.

"It's alright," I assure. Then, after a pause, "I am glad I am feeling better as well." In every possible way, but I don't say that.

I just want to carry on walking, when he adds, "If I may say something else – daylight suits you, Sister." He says it politely and there are tiny laughter lines around his eyes and that's enough to elevate what could have been perceived as an inappropriate comment to what it truly is – kindness.

Matron clears her throat pointedly and so I smile a quick thanks to the officer and take up again my slow walk towards the door. Once I am there, she lays a hand my forehead and then orders to bed for the rest of the day with a stern look that allows no protest. It doesn't even really bother much though. Today was a first step.

One foot in front of the other, right?

Once I have made it upstairs to my room, I let myself sink down on the bed. Someone has brought up a tray with a cold supper and next to the plate, I spy today's mail. Despite my weariness, I immediately reach for it.

There's the usual letter from Ken. He and his men are on their way to Germany – the thought is still pretty weird somehow – and he is frightfully busy, but he still finds a few minutes every day to write to me. Ever since I regained enough strength to hold a pen, I have been writing back faithfully. Hoping that maybe one of my letters may have already reached him, wherever he is right now.

I put Ken's letter to the side to read it last, as I usually do. Even when he just manages a few lines, his letters are always precious enough for me to want time and quiet to read them. Instead, I thumb through the other letters on my tray. I have to say that the haul is pretty good. There are the usual letters from home – from Nan and Dad, this time. From England, there is one from Polly, who I know wanted to come and visit me. Of course that was out of the question as it would have put her or her unborn baby in danger of catching the flu from me, so _that_ was quite unthinkable, really. Over from France have come the letters from Maud and Miss Inglish, who are among the former colleagues I am still in contact with. And then, lastly, there is also one of the rare letters from Carl.

A little unsure, I consider the letter spread out before me. Normally, I would sort them first and then read them in a pre-conceived order. But right now, that seems needlessly exhausting. So, following a sudden inspiration, I take up my fork, close my eyes and blindly poke it at the mail. When I open my eyes again, I see that that prongs have landed firmly on Nan's letter.

With a shrug, I put down the fork and take up the letter instead. Nan, then.

What is a little disorienting about the letters from Canada right now is that, due to them taking roughly two weeks to reach me, they have all been written at a time when the world looked very different still. Nan's letter, too, is headed by a date from the first days of this month, when I was still ill, and the war was still waging. A thought, as strange as the thought of the war actually being over now. Even after a week, I have to remind myself several times a day that it is _truly_ all over. I don't think it has fully sunk in yet.

Nan's letter is unusually heavy, even for Nan, who was known for writing long letters, before they stopped being long for a time, before they started getting longer again, some months ago. For a moment, I just look down at the pages in my hand, then I settle back against the pillow, read the first sentence – and immediately sit back up again.

 _Today, my last letter to Walter came back_ 'returned to sender' _. Now I am sitting here, writing to you, not knowing if this letter, too, will find its way back into my hands unopened._

Slowly, I let go of a breath and sink back into the pillows. It is only with some hesitation that I let my gaze drift back to my big sister's letter.

The hand is familiar, but the letter itself is unusual. Not as carefully composed, nor as orderly as Nan's letters usually are. Instead, snatches of thought fly back and forth, superseding each other and wrapping in around themselves, sometimes making sense and sometimes not. Yet, despite everything, this feels like the most honest letter I have ever received from Nan. As if only the possibility of her words never being read by me, enabled her to write them in the first place.

She begins with the flu ( _sometimes I wonder if it's our punishment for being unable to live_ with _one another instead of_ against _each other_ ), before seamlessly moving on to the war ( _it will be our curse, I think, for as long as we live, and we won't ever truly escape it_ ). She writes about Walter ( _we always had our imagination in common and I wonder if he ended up hating his imagination as much as I do mine_ ) and about Jerry – his illness ( _I know there are things all of you are not telling me and though I know you're doing it to protect me, I wish you would tell me the truth_ ) and his death ( _a part of me died alongside him and even though I managed to carry on somehow, a part of me will always remain dead_ ); about Connie ( _I think I wouldn't be here still but for her, and maybe that's why I live in daily fear of something happening to her_ ) and about Di ( _I wanted to rush to her side but, father said it wasn't possible. I swear to you, if I never see her again I won't forgive myself, for as long as I live_ ); about Bruce's death ( _what's most awful is to think about everything he will never get to experience_ ) and about Susan's ( _it felt like part of our childhood dying_ ). And finally, there are also some lines about the past ( _how happy we were – will even one of us ever be that happy again?_ ) and the future ( _as much as I try, and even with all my imagination, I can't picture the rest of my life and that terrifies me_ ).

Not putting things into words has helped me survive these past years by not feeling them too much, but Nan is relentless. For every thought, every emotion, she finds words, sharp and painful in their honesty. More than once I want to rebel against them, want to stop reading this awful letter and yet, finish reading it still.

I read until the last dot. Then I lower the pages and take a deep breath.

Right at the top of the letter, there's my name, but until the very end, I am not quite certain if it was really meant for me at all. Or if distance and illness haven't made me unreal enough to her, so that she could address a confession to me she wasn't able to make to anyone else.

Maybe I was never supposed to read that letter. But I did read it, every last word. And maybe, in it lies the answer to a question I have been struggling with for a long time. Maybe it's not about addressing every written line and every spoken word to another person. Maybe it's sometimes enough to let them out into the world, the thoughts and worries, the wishes and fears, and wait for someone willing to take them on.

Without making a conscious decision, without even thinking about it properly, I reach for my writing paper and a pen, both of which I always keep on my bed stand. Almost automatically, my hand writes the date in the upper corner of the paper and, a little beneath it:

 _Dear Nan_.

Then I stop thinking. For two years, I have desperately tried to bridge the gap opening up between my family and me, and only now, when I don't think, but simply set the truth free, in all its beauty and all its ugliness, am I able to find the words. It is, all of a sudden, almost easy. I am only partly aware of what I write and yet, I know instinctively that every word formed by my hand is a true one.

I put all of my truths into words, and in doing so, I hand them over to other people – to my _family_ – in the hope, no, in the _knowledge_ that they will help me carry them. I write about my work and about the past two years, how they were somehow both amazing and horrible. I write about Ken and about Walter and, finally, even about Jerry. Only that very last truth I keep to myself. The spit oath still holds.

Still, it is certainly the most honest letter I have written since setting foot on the ship that carried me into this war. It's not only a letter to Nan, same as her letter wasn't really meant for me, but a letter to them all. I know that I won't be able to write this a second time. But as I fold the many pages into an envelope, together with Walter's last poems, I feel lighter than I have in a long time.

Because a person can be shattered by their own truth, but how much easier is it to shoulder the truths of those you love?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'A mother's prayer for her boy out there' from 1918 (lyrics by Andrew B. Sterling, music by Arthur Lange)._


	64. Seas between us broad have roared

_December 5_ _th_ _, 1918  
Canadian Convalescent Officers' Hospital, Matlock Bath, England_

 **Seas between us broad have roared**

"Ah, Sister, could you just…"

Before the patient has a chance to finish his sentence, I have already silenced him by pushing a lit cigarette between his lips. Surprised, he looks at me, then murmurs his thanks around the cigarette. The idea of simply taking it out again to speak obviously doesn't occur to him.

I smile at him, though I'm not quite able to supress a discreet eye roll once I have turned away. It's hardly surprising that I anticipated his request. In more than two years, the only one of my wards where half of the patients weren't smoking at any given time, was the moribund ward in Étaples. Even that was only down to the fact that they couldn't be trusted to keep themselves upright for long enough to prevent the cigarette from falling down and setting the bed on fire. (Though in the end, the Germans accomplished that all on their own, after all). Why should it be any different here, just because it is an officers' hospital?

Softly humming to the song played by the gramophone in the middle of the room, I stroll over to the small cart where I earlier prepared the necessary medication. Thanks to the streak of stubbornness that runs in our family, I managed to expand my tasks satisfyingly quickly from reading and writing letters, back to proper medical work. The tasks still can't be too physically straining – if there is something to be carried, I am usually given the lint – but apart from that, I am starting to feel like myself again.

Among my daily tasks is the preparation and distribution of medication, as well as the regular measuring of vital functions. Taking the patients' temperatures is, naturally, part of that, and seeing as my own bout of flu apparently wasn't conducive to my already clumsy handling of thermometers, the quarter master isn't altogether enthused. But I guess he'll just have to live with it, won't he?

And besides, we have thermometers in abundance here, just like there seems to be a rich supply of basically anything one could wish for. It's not as evident as in that too posh officers' hospital Ken was in in London, but it does seem as if donations by the well-off people of Canada to the convalescing officers are far more generous in both quantity and quality than anything they give out to the normal troops. Add to that the fact that this used to be a very expensive hotel in a very posh spa town and there's no denying that we live a very comfortable life indeed.

It is, therefore, quite natural that I have been looking for a way to get away from here for a good two weeks now.

Because the distribution of medication is really very monotonous, just like everything here. The care of convalescing officers is – dare I say it? – sometimes downright boring. They are mostly reasonably well already and many of them spend their days in the communal rooms or outside in the garden, thus needing relatively little care. Though at least that does leave everyone with plenty of time for various amusements.

Now, it's not as if I am suddenly taking part in every activity offered, for apart from my body not yet being strong enough, it's simply that too much has happened in too short a time. In the past few days, I sometimes accompanied the other nurses on a trip to town, be it to see a movie or do some shopping. Besides, there is more than enough to be done in the hospital proper, usually arranged for the patients' benefit but always open for nurses as well – be it a tea party or a dance, games and sports (if the weather allows) and whatever else they or we can think up to fill the time. Sport is still too strenuous for me and I don't dance, but the power of a good cup of tea is an acknowledged truth after all.

With a smile, I hand his pills to a patient currently sitting on his bed in the middle of the ward and reading, before turning around to his neighbour – and pausing.

He is one of the new arrivals, only having been brought here yesterday from a hospital in London. When he arrived, he seemed normal, polite and communicative and not any more ill than the rest of them. Now though… frowning, I take a step closer.

Sweat beads on his forehead, while, at the same time, his teeth are chattering wildly. His face is pale, the eyes runny and bloodshot. His body is shaking, his limbs moving around haphazardly. When I put a hand on his forehead, it feels hot to the touch.

My first thought, of course, is the flu. I wasn't the only one struck down by it, not in this hospital and not anywhere else, and though the papers are reporting a drop in numbers of flu patients recently, I have gathered enough information to realize that, even in these few short weeks, it must have raged in this already weary world as horribly as the war did.

The mercury in my thermometer is climbing quickly, confirming what my hand already felt earlier. The blood pressure, too, is higher than I would like.

It all points towards flu and yet…

"How long has he been like this?" I ask the men in the neighbouring bed.

He looks up from his book for a moment, eyeing the shivering patient. "I think he started to get worse during the night. He spent half of it yammering, saying he was in pain," he reports. "He didn't eat anything either." This, with a nod to the still laden breakfast tray.

If it really was flu, surely someone would have already isolated him long ago? I'm not the first nurse crossing through this ward today and the doctor already did his morning round as well. So, if this _isn't_ the flu… what else?

Even while I am considering him thoughtfully, the man suddenly spasms, then quickly leans to the side and, without further warning, vomits onto his breakfast try. I sigh softly. The patient in the next bed raises his eyebrows pointedly before turning back to his book in a very determined way.

I turn as well, looking for an orderly to take care of the mess, but to my surprise I see Lionel standing a few steps behind me.

"Morphine," he says quietly, with a sigh of his own.

"Morphine?" I ask back.

"This man is suffering from an addiction to morphine. He exhibits all the usual symptoms of opiate withdrawal," Lionel explains.

I look back towards the patient, frowning.

Sure, I know that morphine is addictive, like so many of the medications they liked to call 'wonder drugs' some twenty or thirty years ago. Morphine, at least, has the distinctive advantage of doing what it is supposed to do – it's still the best analgesic we've got. Accordingly, we have been quite liberal in its administration during the war. If a man is lacking a hand or has a bullet stuck in his chest, the only thing you want it to take away some of his pain, to hell with the consequences.

Accordingly, I am even more surprised at never knowingly having seen the symptoms of the man in the bed in front of me. If one considers how much morphine we used on the men… shouldn't we be seeing this far more often?

"How often does this happen?" I hand over my question to Lionel, turning back towards him.

He inclines his head thoughtfully. "Fortunately, not as often as one might think. If they only receive morphine for a short time and the dose is slowly lowered before it is withdrawn completely, they sometimes do not exhibit any symptoms at all, or else, they are much less serious than with this patient," he answers.

I nod slowly. "But if it does happen – how come I have never seen this before?" I wonder.

"If I understood Jem correctly, you were deployed further forward in the chain of treatment up until coming here. The patients only exhibit symptoms of withdrawal once the medication with morphine has been ended and as this usually only happens when their treatment has progressed past a certain point, they are normally already in an English hospital by then," Lionel further explains.

It actually makes sense. After two months in England, I spent two years on the continent, having only returned here a mere nine weeks ago. While in France or Belgium, we indeed made sure that every patient who was in pain was given something to alleviate it. No withdrawal of morphine means no withdrawal symptoms.

"What do we do with him?" I ask.

Lionel raises his shoulders in a shrug. "Nothing," he replies matter-of-factly.

Surprised, I raise both eyebrows. "Nothing at all?"

"In my experience, it is not possible to do much for him. The preferred course of action is to lower the dose of morphine gradually, but once it has been withdrawn abruptly, there is nothing to be done to make this easier for me. We can only wait for the symptoms to lift on their own," he answers.

"When will that be?" I want to know. I don't like the thought of letting the patient just suffer like that.

"Normally, the most serious symptoms persist for two or three days. I expect his condition to have stabilized by tomorrow evening. In approximately a week, he should be completely fine again," Lionel explains.

One week? Poor chap.

"And there's nothing to be done?" I persist.

Lionel shakes his head. "Unfortunately, there is no specific treatment. The only option open to us is to try and alleviate his discomfort by addressing the individual symptoms. Compensating for the depletion of fluid, applying antifebrile measures…" he lists.

I don't let him get any further. "Alright, that's something, isn't it?" This, with a firm nod. Stepping closer to the patient, already trying to think of a way to get fluid into him, my gaze falls on the sullied breakfast tray.

"When you go – can you send me an orderly to clean up here?" I ask Lionel, wrinkling my nose. Because while I don't care to count how often I have been confronted by the contents of stomach, intestines and other body regions, that doesn't mean I ever truly got used to it. Some things simply remain disgusting, regardless of how often one encounters them.

"I will do that," promises Lionel with a slight smile, before turning away.

I, on the other hand, look back down at the shaking patient, rubbing my hands together. Let's see if I won't be able to make his plight a little easier for him…

In the end, I care for the man for a good hour – one advantage of the high nurse-to-patient ratio in this hospital is that one can actually do that, spend an hour with just one patient. Stubbornly, I pour water down his throat, sometimes in individual droplets when he won't accept it any other way. Whenever his condition allows, I also have him take little sips of herbal tea. Several times I wash his armpits, hands and feet with cold water, while also making compressions for his legs. As far as the strength in my own arms permits, I try to take some of his pain away by massaging his limbs.

When I finally take my well-earned break, I feel suitably exhausted, but also elated by the knowledge that he seems to be feeling a little better. It is, therefore, with a very content feeling that I settle down in a quiet corner of the sunroom with today's mail.

There are just three letters, none of which made the journey across the Atlantic. Irrationally, that disappoints me a little, for I am waiting not very patiently for an answer to the letter I wrote to Nan some two weeks ago. Now, I am fully aware that this letter can only just have arrived in Glen and an answer won't reach me until mid-December at the earliest, but it doesn't prevent me from hoping for a miracle every time I collect my mail.

Besides… Besides, I haven't had a letter from mum ever since Walter died and that worries me. I so wish she'd write.

Still, no letter from Canada today. There is one from Ken, posted in Belgium, and one from Persis in France. And then there's a letter sent from Ireland, from little Paddy O'Mulligan.

I read Paddy's letter first. It is written in the girly hand of his Molly, but the voice sounding out of it transports me back to a nightly ambulance train, somewhere in France. The memory of _Siúl a rún_ sounds softly through my memory and, more than anything, I am glad to have been proven right. His Molly waited for him.

Persis's letter is next, posted in Rouen where she was sent almost two months ago, not long after I left France. The letter is both rather short and very matter-of-fact for Persis. I know that having already having spent the summer caring for flu patients; this second, much deadlier wave has hit her hard, emotionally. Maybe it's also because the transfer to Rouen has deprived her of the comfort of Tim's presence, on whom she has relied more and more in the previous months. Whatever the reason she sounds… tired.

At least she writes about a telegram from her father, reporting that her mother is starting to get well again. For as soon as Di was on her way to recovery, the flu struck down Leslie and even though no one has said as much, I suspect Leslie got infected while caring for my sister. There is still no news on Milly though – which might be understandable, seeing as her condition is hardly something Owen would report in a telegram to his daughter.

But in any case, Owen and Leslie should be informed about Ken's and my marriage by now. I wired him shortly before posting my letter to Nan, to give him the chance to write a letter of his own.

I wonder what they think about it?

Putting Persis's letter to the side, I take up Ken's. They have been on the move for some weeks now, right through Belgium, not spending two nights in the same place. Accordingly, his tone is often somewhat stressed, but he still takes the time to write to me daily, come what may. Sometimes, I get three letters at once, depending on the Postal Service, but I prefer one letter every day, just like now.

I am just in the process of reading his letter a second time, giving special attention to the little comments he always slips in and that invariably make me smile, when I feel someone's eyes upon me. Quickly folding the letter in half, I look up, but it's just Lionel. He is standing some steps away and looks as if he is unsure whether he's allowed to come closer or not.

"Can I help you with anything?" I ask with an encouraging smile.

"Oh, I don't want to bother you if you are busy," Lionel immediately replies. He is terribly polite, Lionel is, such much so that I regularly wonder how he and Jem ever got along.

"It's alright," I reassure him. Then, to make it a little easier, "How is our morphine case?"

Cautiously, Lionel comes a few steps closer, but I have to motion invitingly towards the seat at my side before he actually dares to sit down there. "He is, fortunately, feeling a little better. You took excellent care of him," he reports.

I shrug. "It felt good," I admit. "It has been the first time in quite a while, that I felt as if I was truly helping someone."

Lionel nods understandingly but doesn't seem to have any idea what to respond.

"It's a little curious, isn't it?" I ruminate instead. "That it's all over now. No one is happier than I am about this war finally being over and done with and yet… we will all of us do something very different pretty soon and the thought is a little strange. But then, the thought of the war being over is already strange enough on its own, to be honest. Almost four weeks have passed, and I still can't quite believe it. My husband writes that he and his battalion will cross into Germany within the next few days – maybe they already have by now. I mean, just think about it! That's just… totally crazy!"

There's disbelief in my laugh. Lionel inclines his head thoughtfully. "It is a thought we are all still unaccustomed to," he concurs. "But I am of the opinion that the majority of army personnel will be happy to finally see their families again."

"Sure," I agree. "If you think about how those that went out first thought they'd be back by Christmas, and then had to wait for Christmas four years later for the war to be done…"

Lionel pulls a sympathetic face. "Ah – I fear you won't be back in Canada by Christmas. I am hopeful, however, that you will be back with your family by January at the latest," he relays.

I pause.

Wait a moment. What was that?

"What are you talking about?" I ask, considering him through slightly narrowed eyes.

"The army has started sending the first people back to Canada. It is expected that you will soon get notice about your own return," Lionel explains.

"And… why?" I want to know.

Lionel looks at me in surprise. My directness seems to unnerve him a little. "Now that the war has ended, capacity of the hospitals will slowly be decreased. We already have fewer patients than we did last month. Seeing as you are still in a phase of convalescence yourself, the thought of sending you back to Canada early has a certain logic. You should be able to recover better there than you can here."

I shake my head. Slowly at first, then increasingly insistent. "I'm not going back," I inform him.

"Pardon?" Lionel is clearly perplexed by my response.

"I said, I'm not going back," I repeat. "My husband is in Germany as part of the occupation force and I sure won't put the Atlantic between us needlessly. Not when every letter takes two weeks or longer to cross it. I'm not going back until he is."

For a moment, Lionel is silent. "I am not sure how much influence…" he begins then.

I interrupt him. "Either I stay here as nurse or I present them with our marriage certificate and stay as his wife. I can be much more useful as a nurse."

"That is certainly correct, but…" Lionel tries again.

Once more, I don't let him finish. "I'm better, am I not? I took care of that morphine case excellently today. You said it yourself and I will only continue to improve. There is no reason to send me away."

"I can't deny that. Still, you are not completely recovered, and this hospital will be reducing staff in the next month. I doubt that you will be able to do anything against the decision to send you home," he points out helplessly.

"But you could declare me recovered, couldn't you?" I enquire. If the doctors of this hospital said I am alright, the army would likely not question that too much.

"Well… I think that could be arranged," stammers Lionel. The poor chap seems totally blindsided.

"And if I get someone high up in another unit to specifically request my transfer, I would get sent there, wouldn't I?" I ask.

Lionel nods, if hesitatingly. "That sounds about right," he admits.

That's all I need. My head has already gone into overdrive. Miss Talbot would take me back, I'm sure. Perhaps I could even write to Zachary, even though our correspondence has been few and far, ever since I left Arques. Maybe the combined power of Colette and Dr MacIver could suffice to get me back to Saint Cloud. Or else…

"Rilla?" Lionel carefully interrupts my thoughts. "May I ask you something?"

"Sure," I answer distractedly, my mind far too busy with my unfolding plan.

He takes a deep breath. "Why are you so set on continuing to work as a nurse? You were seriously ill and are still weakened. I understand your wish to be closer to your husband, but that option is open to you as his wife. Why do you want to continue your work in light of that?" he asks.

Suddenly alert, I look at him. He looks back. I think we both can't quite believe it that he really just asked me that.

Still, he was never anything but kind to me. I guess he deserve honesty at the very least. "You know, Lionel…" I begin slowly, "When I cared for that morphine case just there… I felt more useful than I have in… _weeks_. The thing is that I… I don't know what I can be when I am no longer a nurse. When I am with Ken, I can be his wife, but without him… if I am neither one nor the other, then… then I don't know _who_ I am, and the thought scares me."

Some seconds pass in silence. Then, Lionel nods. "I think I can understand that," he replies, thoughtfully but kindly.

"So, you'll help me?" I ask eagerly.

Another pause – another nod. "I will do my best," he promises, sounding almost solemn.

That I hug him in thanks does, however, surprise him, because for a moment or two, he freezes in shock. It takes several seconds for him to raise his arm and clumsily pat my back.

In the next moment, someone clears their throat, causing him to flinch and draw backwards. I lean back as well, but slower than he does. While Lionel turns away – though not before I have seen his very red face – I look at the private standing in front of us. I think he is part of the administrative branch of the hospital.

"Yes?" I ask calmly.

"Telegram for Sister Blythe," he announces, holding out a piece of paper to me.

As always, my heart stops for a second, before I remind myself that I don't have to fear telegrams, not anymore.

I take the paper, nodding curtly at the private. "Thank you." With the wave of a hand, I dismiss him, seeing as Lionel shows no attempt at doing so. When the private turns, I can see him eyeing us curiously.

"I think it might be best if I leave soon anyway," I remark amusedly to Lionel. "I dare say the entire hospital will know about this by evening."

In response, he only manages a pained smile. Poor chap. Where Jem has a surplus of self-confidence, his old classmate clearly lacks it.

With nimble fingers, I open the telegram, take one look – and feel my smile slipping as I read the words. Instead, there are suddenly tears burning in my eyes.

The telegram is from home. And it is the answer to my letter. The answer for which I have been waiting so desperately all week.

 _We are happy for you. We love you. Take care until we see you again. Your family._

'Good tears', Walter called them. And by God, they _are_.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Auld land syne' from 1788 (lyrics taken from a poem by Robert Burns (itself probably inspired by an earlier song by James Watson), music as per a Scottish folk song (possibly 'The Miller's wedding'))._

* * *

 _To CorneliaElliott and AnneShirley:  
I just wanted to thank you for your lovely and thoughtful reviews. It makes any writers day to hear that there is someone out there who enjoys reading their story and I am certainly no exception. I know it's not always an easy story to read, so I am doubly grateful for anyone sticking with it even through the sad parts. These past chapters were among those I tried especially hard to get right, so it's rewarding to know that it worked. I am also very glad you agree with where I have taken Jem and Nan, who have both been marked and also changed by this war a lot. And as for Carl... we'll get there yet, I promise ;)._


	65. You'll never find us fail you

_December 21_ _st_ _, 1918  
_ _No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Bonn, Germany_

 **You'll never find us fail you**

"I will never again travel anywhere for as long as I live. _Never_ , do you hear me?" Bryony announces rather theatrically.

"Oh? So, you'll become German then?" I retort drily, raising both eyebrows.

For a moment, Bryony just stares at me, dumbfounded, before suddenly bursting into gleeful laughter. "I suppose you _are_ right. Looks like I'll have to become German then," she agrees easily.

"Not much worse than a Yankee, anyhow," I point out with a shrug and a little wink.

"Now, don't you get cheeky with me!" Bryony warns, but there's a wide grin on her face that belies the attempted seriousness of her wagging finger.

"Alright. You can be honorary Canadian if you'd like," I allow. After all, she has been serving with the CAMC for two years now, ever since making a break for it and crossing the border without telling her parents.

Before the Americans entered the war, the Canadian Army was generally not opposed to including willing Americans into their ranks, but for us nurses, stricter rules have always applied, with British nationality being a prerequisite. In this matter though, Bryony is advantaged in that she might have been born in the States as the daughter of an American mother but has an English father. And that's how we managed to accrue an otherwise unblemished American into our own ranks.

"Ah, you see…" Bryony replies, drawing out the words, "If I think about it, I might just prefer becoming German instead…" She holds her serious expression for an exact total of two and a half seconds before being overcome by an unrestrained giggle.

I have to smile at her antics as well. By chance, I meet the eyes of Lucy, who has been watching us silently. She lightly shakes her head, but her expression, too, is one of amusement. Lucy is quiet, to put it mildly. She is rather like I would imagine a child of Shirley and Una to have been, had it fulfilled the long-standing expectation of the inhabitants of Glen St. Mary by making an actual appearance.

"Anyway, aren't you glad as well to be back on solid ground?" asks Bryony after having calmed down again.

Lucy nods, but I raise my shoulders. After spending three months on a train just this summer, the past few days felt father familiar to me.

I do have to admit though that it was a bit nettlesome to drive around Germany in an ambulance train for several days until someone finally figured out where to find _No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station_. And when we had finally reached our destination, a German city called Euskirchen, it was announced to us that the entire unit would be transferred to Bonn on the very day, thus prolonging our travels even further. All things considered, I therefore can't deny that I share Bryony's relief at finally being at the end of our journey.

"I am glad to have arrived," I thus concede.

Bryony nods vigorously. "And it's _nice_ here, isn't it?" she wants to know, before twirling around in a circle, arms outstretched.

In this, she is indeed right once more. As strange as the thought of suddenly being in _Germany_ , of all places, still feels, there's no denying that the city of Bonn is a pleasant place. It is about as big as Kingsport and located south of the much bigger Cologne, in the vicinity of which most Canadian troops are stationed. Bonn itself seems to be pretty affluent, if all the elegant bourgeois houses which we passed on our first drive through the city are anything to go by.

Out new home is the _St Marien Hospital_ , a German hospital that the Canadians requisitioned some days ago – against much opposition, if reports are correct. It's located in the middle of a park on a tree-covered hill they call the _Venusberg_ , or Mountain of Venus, and which offers a spectacular view of the city of Bonn, right down to the river Rhine, which seems a good deal wider then even the Thames.

The hospital itself occupies two buildings, a newer one for other ranks and an elaborately constructed, five-storeyed building that dates back to before the war and now houses the officers, personnel and patients alike. It is, as I have noticed to my surprise, the first proper, purpose-built hospital I have worked in ever since leaving Montreal. All the rest of them had been set up in tents or huts or hotels.

So far, I've only managed to get a short glimpse at my surroundings, but it seems to be a modern, well-appointed hospital. Wide corridors run the length of the building with big airy rooms to either side, all of them fitted with heating and electricity. The equipment, too, is nothing to snub at and seeing as the unit only moved here today, the only explanation for that is that not only were the buildings requisitioned from the Germans but furnishings and medical equipment right alongside them. I can't imagine they any of this was given voluntarily either.

"It could be much worse," I agree with Bryony, earning myself a wide smile from her, quite as if she herself had, if not built, at least chosen this hospital all on her own.

A knock on the door interrupts us and immediately, Bryony leaps to her feet to tear it open. On the other side stands a young orderly with a bright red face, obviously not at all comfortable with having been sent to the Sisters' quarters.

"Yes? What do you want?" Bryony demands to know.

The orderly takes a startled step back. "I… well, I was sent… I was sent to bring you your mail. It… it arrived before you did," he stammers.

The letters he offers to Bryony are immediately ripped from his hands. "Brilliant, thanks," she calls out to him while already turning away and slamming the door shut in his face.

Lucy and I exchange a glance, and both suppress a smile. I have to say that I have never yet met anyone as unapologetically _herself_ as Bryony. I even dare question that there is such a thing as a second Bryony. The world may have somehow survived this war, but I don't think it would survive two Bryonys.

The one Bryony existing without a doubt has already started sorting through out mail. With sweeping movements, she throws our letters on our respective beds. My pile grows especially quickly, causing Bryony to pause mid-movement at some point and looking pointedly first at my letters and then over to me. "Dear Goodness, Rilla, you're getting a lot of mail," she remarks, sounding a little impressed.

I give a modest smile. These are, it has to be said, several days' worth of letters. I haven't had even one since leaving Matlock Bath almost a week ago. Accordingly, it is with some greediness that I watch my pile of letters, even more so as I didn't expect them yet. When one is transferred between units, and especially when one is being transferred between countries, it usually takes a while until the mail arrives normally again. That they have now somehow managed to get our mail to us this quickly is more than unusual. But I guess the Army Postal Service works in mysterious ways.

Meanwhile, Bryony has sorted the last letter and now looks over to Lucy and me. For a moment, she just considers us, as we are both peering over towards our mail, then she laughs brightly. "I see. We'll read out letters now, won't we?" she asks.

"Indeed, we will," I confirm, accompanied by Lucy's nod.

And so it comes that, not even two hours after my arrival in Bonn, I am sitting on my camp bed, skimming my mail with eager fingers. After all, no one can say when they'll decide to make us work, so it's best to use the time we are given and use it wisely.

It's the usual haul of letters and only some obvious gaps among the senders tell me that the Postal Service likely hasn't gotten _all_ our letters to us yet. Still, it's –

One moment. What's this?

I pick up one particular letter from the pile and consider it, frowning. The writing is Nan's, there's no doubt about it. But the letter was posted at the beginning of the month in Toronto.

What other reason could there be for Nan to be in Toronto but Di? What, then, if Di wasn't improving after all? What if Mildred didn't make it?

With unsteady fingers, I open the letter.

Right at the beginning, directly beneath my name, Nan wrote in her neat, looping letters: "Before you start worrying – everyone is well. Mildred has been released from hospital but she still needs care and since Di is too weak still to do it herself, Dad has finally allowed Connie and me to come out to Toronto. Hence why we're now here."

Slowly, I let go of a breath I have been holding. Everyone is well.

Everyone is well.

I take a moment to calm my fluttering nerves before reading on. "First of all, let me offer my heartfelt congratulations on your news. I was so very happy to hear of this and expect a detailed account at your earliest convenience."

And just like that, another weight lifts from my mind. My hesitation in telling everyone about my marriage was always at least partly because I was worried about Nan's reaction. The war took her husband – how unfair, then, that it brought me mine.

"I want to thank you for your letter and your honesty, especially concerning Walter," Nan continues. "I have, therefore, decided to match honesty with honesty. Dad doesn't want us to write to you about how we fared this past autumn, but I think you have as much a right to the truth as we do."

I'm with her on that one. For even though I spent the whole of October in a cloud of haziness and half of November in a feverish dream, it didn't escape my notice that among all the letters I received, there was not one from Mum. My increasingly urgent queries to Dad were all waved off with a placating assurance of everything being fine. And as much as I understand the thought behind it, that doesn't make it any better. Not _really_.

Though that's not to say that Nan's truth is any easier to bear.

She takes me back to the day when Persis's telegram reached Ingleside. To Mum, who broke down at hearing the news, and to Dad, who went very white and very still and withdrew into his office for many long hours. She describes the weeks of October, during which Mum's grief seamlessly turned into flu and back into grief again. How first Ingleside and then the Manse fell victim to the flu, like so many other houses in the Glen. How they buried Bruce and Susan and had waited too many weeks worrying someone else might succumb as well – little Ian, for one. How November came, and they tried to go on, in the knowledge that both Di and I were ill, one farther away than the other. How only the beginning of December, when the flu finally started subsiding, brought an opportunity to finally take a deep breath and start trying to process what had happened. Walter's death and the losses claimed by the flu.

And as I read her depiction, a persistent lump in my throat, I realize, perhaps for the first time, what Dad's silence and the many miles between us and maybe even my own bout of flu protected me from. I had no one to share my grief with and that was hard, but I also had no opportunity to shoulder someone else's grief.

They are merciless, Nan's writings, and still I read them thrice, word for word, before I slowly lower the pages. I am grateful for her honesty and despite it – _because_ of it? – I have to fight down the sudden guilt rising within me. I have decided to be here – but doesn't my family need me that much more?

I put Nan's letter down, to shaken to write a reply right now. With nervous, shaky fingers I look through the rest of my mail, only partially concentrating, my thoughts still preoccupied by what I just read. Until… until another letter falls into my hands. Just a thin envelope and yet, enough to push everything else to the back of my mind.

It is a letter from Mum. Quickly, I tear open the envelope. It only contains one page, now trembling slightly in the hold of my shaking hands.

"My darling girl – I may still call you that, may I not?" she begins and what follows is a letter that is, despite its brevity, so very _Mum_ that the homesickness hits me with a strength I haven't felt in a very long time.

She writes that she was glad to hear that I was with Walter during his last moments. She thanks me for sending his poems home, which brought her some form of comfort, just as they did me earlier. She assures that she is starting to feel better, despite the long walk we all have ahead of us. She tells me how happy she is at knowing that I have found my own happiness, with the son of her dear friend Leslie. And then, at the very end, she writes the words that are almost enough to turn the lump in my throat into actual tears. "Please take very good care of youself. I sometimes think you don't fully realize how much we all love you, and no one more so than I. I am proud of you and what you are doing, but I am already looking forward to the day when I will be able to hold my little girl in my arms again."

I lower her letter. Blink. Blink again. Then I raise it again, read it over and over, until every word has burned itself into my memory. Somehow, I didn't realize how much I had been waiting for this letter, ever since the day Walter's hand stilled in mine. How much I had been waiting for it and how relieved I am to now hold it on my hands.

I have no idea how often I have read the letter when an almost indiscernible knock on the door makes me raise my head.

Before Lucy or I have a chance to react, Bryony has already bounced up from her bed and over to the door. On its other side is, once more, the fumbling orderly, now possibly even redder in the face than before.

"Yes?" Bryony demands.

"I, um…" the poor chap stammers, "I, well, I am supposed to bring you to the matron."

Immediately, two heads turn to look at me. During our train odyssey through Germany, Bryony and Lucy have silently made me into something of a leader in our small group. We're all about the same age, with Bryony being a little older and Lucy a little younger than me, but I have so much more experience than they do, that they seem to put trust in my judgement. Both joined the CAMC after I did, Bryony a few months later and Lucy about a year ago, but while my path had me crisscrossing Western Europe, they both mostly worked in England. They were both only posted to Camiers with _No. 7 CSH_ , my old unit, in autumn, and now they're here, of course. The thought of serving with a CCS therefore fills them with the kind of excited pride I, too, must have felt nearly two years ago. In another life.

The truth is that, having that much more experience, I somehow feel older than them. And, curiously, terribly grown up.

Putting Mum's letter down, I banish my roiling feelings to the back of my mind for the moment. I will get back to her letter later on and, with it, to the feelings it engenders. And though I am glad that I am able to do this at all, it still sometimes startles me to realize how well the war has taught me to partition off my feelings. Maybe it was the only way to endure.

"Come on then. Matron is waiting," I encourage my fellow nurses, while already slipping my feet back into my boots. Upon reaching the door, I motion for the orderly to take the lead. Lucy and Bryony follow behind me and I can quite shake the feeling that they're hiding a little bit.

We continue on like this, until the orderly finally stops abruptly at the end of a corridor and knocks at a door. Seconds pass, before a firm "Come in!" can be heard. He opens the door for us, saluting while we pass, and closes it silently behind Lucy.

The room we now stand it isn't totally chaotic, but there's little doubt that it is still in the process of being set up. The matron herself sits behind a desk, bend over a disorderly pile of papers, and it takes a moment until she lowers her pen and raises her head to look at us.

"Ah, our reinforcements," she acknowledges not unkindly. "Let's see. Miss Turpin?"

Bryony shyly raises her hand. It's certainly the first time I have seen Bryony being shy and have to suppress a smile. Every nurse quavers in front of a new matron.

"And Miss Ralston," Matron continues with a nod to Lucy. Then her gaze turns to me.

"Miss Blythe. So, we meet again," she remarks with a smile.

"Matron," I respond respectfully, mirroring her smile almost automatically.

There were several units to which I could have tried to have myself transferred, but as much as I would have loved to see Colette again or be closer to Persis, there is one person I want to have near me above anybody else. And since Ken is in Germany, it proved to be my natural destination as well. Who knows, if those letters had come earlier, maybe I wouldn't have fought the plan to send me back to Canada quite so forcefully. But they came when they did and… as much as I long to be with my family, I also desperately want to see my husband again.

It was, therefore, Agatha Burke to whom I addressed my letter and somehow, she managed to wangle my transfer to her unit. That she had been the one to send me away from Aubigny all those months ago probably played into my hands just as much as the fact that Dr Cormer, whom I had assisted in the operating theatre for some weeks, was promoted to commandant of the unit in the interim.

"I welcome all three of you to this hospital," Matron adds. "I am certain you will find your way around it quickly. If you don't, your colleagues will be happy to assist you."

She looks from one to the other, holding the gaze of each of us for several seconds. "Do you have any questions for now?"

Bryony and Lucy both shake their heads quickly, but I take a step forward. "If it's possible, I'd like to speak to you for a moment. Privately." I explain with an apologetic look at my fellow nurses.

If any of this surprises the matron, she doesn't let it show. "Certainly. Please take a seat," she asks, before turning back to the other two, "Miss Turpin, Miss Ralston, if you would be so kind…"

"Of course," murmurs Bryony and Lucy nods. Then, they both hurry to leave the room. The Matron looks after them and, as the door closes behind them, she shakes her head, smiling. "Why is it that everyone is always scared of me just because of my position?" she wonders.

"That's because most matrons are scary," I answer, while pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite her.

"Yes, you might be right about that. I suppose that could be the explanation," she agrees easily. Then, suddenly, her eyes become searching. "What did you want to talk about?"

I take a deep breath. "First of all, I want to thank you for enabling me to transfer to this unit," I begin.

The matron nods. "I was sorry to have to send you away, back there in France. And since Dr Murray left us a good while ago, I see no reason for you not re-joining us."

That is, thankfully, just the right topic. "Truth to be told, that's exactly what I wanted to talk about. Do you remember our final conversation?" I ask cautiously.

"Very well," she answers calmly. "Am I to understand from your question that you changed your mind about Dr Murray?" She raises both eyebrows.

I shake my head quickly. "No, it's not that. But… I did get married," I admit.

For a moment, she considers me silently. "You realize I should report that, don't you?" she asks. Her voice is matter-of-fact, her face betrays no thought.

"I do know that," I answer, managing to sound much calmer than I feel. "I think… I just hope that you won't."

Several more seconds pass. "Well, I can hardly rebuke you for taking my advice to heart," she finally remarks and there's a tiny little smile playing on her lips.

Relieved, I let go of a breath. So far, this conversation is going better than expected.

"Who's the lucky husband?" she enquires.

"He is with the infantry. He commands a battalion," I explain.

The matron nods. "Lieutenant Colonel, then? Good catch."

"It's not…" I start to defend myself, but she silences me with a wave of the hand.

"It's alright. I know that's not why you married him. If status was what you are after, you would have taken Dr Murray back in the day," she placates.

I nod, silent, because what's there to say to that?

"Am I correct in assuming that your husband is stationed in Germany as well?" she asks.

"He is," I confirm.

"And you want to go and see him?" she adds and actually sounds understanding.

Once more, I nod. I almost daren't hope…

"Well…" Matron continues thoughtfully. "After the journey you undertook to reach us, I already resolved to give you tomorrow off. We left our patients in Euskirchen in the care of the Australians of No. 3 CCS, so there's not much to do here yet anyway. So, I don't see a reason why you shouldn't go visit him tomorrow."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Your King and Country want you' from 1914 (lyrics and music by Paul Rubens)._


	66. To call you back to me

_December 22_ _nd_ _, 1918  
Lind near Cologne, Germany_

 **To call you back to me**

"Do you see, Sister? This place here is called Lind. And that over there is where we want to go," explains our driver and points towards a wooded rise to our right.

"On our left is the Rhine, but you can't see it from here," he adds. "If you cross back over the river and drive further to the north, you reach Cologne. The city is currently in bounds for Canadian troops again. You should go and see the cathedral sometime."

I nod, but I am distracted. Cologne Cathedral holds little allure to me right now. The driver, thankfully, makes no further attempts at trying to convince me of the appeal of German ecclesial architecture. With half an ear, I listen to Bryony's chatter from the backseat instead. She has, as usual, a more willing listener in Lucy.

Impatiently, I wait until we have climbed the height and the driver has finally stopped our automobile at a tall gate. I notice a sign that says _Deutsche Sprengstoff AG_ , but my five words of German hardly suffice to understand that.

I already have my hand on the door handle when our driver asks, "Do you want me to wait here, Ma'am?"

Quickly, I shake my head. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. Someone from the battalion will take us back."

His look is one of surprise, but he knows better than to question my words. I don't wait for him to say anything else, nor do I give him a chance to get out and open my door for me. Instead, I quickly climb from the automobile on my own. Bryony already stands next to it and on the other side, Lucy is just getting out as well.

The driver salutes and turns the automobile with one last questioning glance in our direction. Slowly, he drives back down the road.

"Shouldn't we have asked him to stay? How are we going to get back now?" asks Lucy cautiously as she comes over to us. She doesn't speak much, dear Lucy, but what she says is usually very sensible.

Bryony just waves her concern away with a laugh. "As if there's even one soldier not overeager to assist three nurses in distress in getting back on the right path," she teases.

"And besides," I add, "I am married to the CO. He'll find someone to take us back alright."

With that, I square my shoulders and approach the guard standing by the gate. Behind me, I hear a surprised Bryony ask, "What? What what what what _what_?" I don't turn around but have to bite back a small smile.

The guard, a young private, eyes me wonderingly as I come to a halt in front of him. Then, a little too late, he remembers his training and salutes snappily. "Good day, Ma'am. How can I help you, Ma'am?" he enquires.

"I have come to see Lieutenant Colonel Ford," I reply as calmly as my hammering heart allows.

He nods. "Who may I announce?" he wants to know.

I pause. The question should be easy and yet… 'Rilla' is to intimate, 'Nursing Sister Blythe' sounds wrong and is incorrect anyway. 'His wife', however, simply reveals too much for the moment.

Thinking back to the day in August when I last saw Ken, I suddenly remember what Matt Irving called me then. _The girl from the picture._

"Tell him, I am the girl from the picture," I therefore respond. Let him think what he wants about that.

But instead of registering surprise, the private's expression turns thoughtful. He narrows his eyes and considers me for several seconds. Then, very suddenly, his expression clears and a wide smile blooms on his face. "You really are, Ma'am!" he declares.

Alright. Now I wonder who else has seen that mysterious picture.

The private seems to consider several options before he finally announces, "I'll take you to him directly. That way, you won't have to wait." He waves over one of his comrades to take his place at the gate, then motions for us to follow him.

I nod at Bryony and Lucy, who come to walk by my side. "What did you mean when you said you were married to the CO?" Bryony hisses in my direction as we follow the private.

"I meant exactly what I said," I murmur back.

Bryony blinks in surprises, exchanging a meaningful glance with Lucy. Whatever they _thought_ I meant, they obviously didn't consider the truth a viable option.

"Does Matron know?" Bryony whispers.

"Of course," I answer quietly. "Do you think she'd let us come here unsupervised otherwise?"

For a moment, Bryony mulls that over, before sudden understanding brightens her face. "So, you're our chaperone?" she enquires. There's an amused glint in her eyes.

I grimace slightly. I'd like to contradict her, for I am surely not old enough to be anyone's chaperone, but I'm afraid she's not entirely wrong. I had to promise Matron Burke to look after the two of them.

Thankfully, the private saves me from having to say anything in reply. He stops at a large, fairly impressive building and points at the front door. "Ma'am, this is the officers' mess," he explains. He can't accompany us any further, of course, for without express orders to the contrary the officers' mess is out of bounds to him.

With a small smile, I nod at him. "Very well. Thank you, Private…" I pause as I realize that he has never given his name.

"Murphy, Ma'am," he is quick to help out, "Private Murphy."

"Private Murphy," I repeat, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Ma'am," he retorts with a wide smile. Another salute – they don't salute us nearly as often in the hospital as they do here – before he turns around and hurries back to the gate. There's no doubt that he will lose no time in telling his comrades about our arrival. In ten minutes, the whole battalion will know.

With Bryony and Lucy close behind, I enter the building. Once inside, it takes a moment until I have orientated myself. A helpful lieutenant finally points us towards a door at the end of the hall. A deep breath, then I raise a hand and knock.

"Come in!" comes the order and just like that, I know I've come to the right place. I will always recognize his voice.

I open the door, pausing in the doorway. My eyes have immediately sought out Ken, sitting in a plush armchair next to the window. Opposite him is Matt Irving, currently bent over a chess board in concentration. Ken, meanwhile, raised his head when I opened the door and now looks directly at me. For several seconds, we just gaze at each other, silent. Emotions play over his face – surprise, concern, happiness, doubt. I stand very still and wait. My heart beats in my throat.

Maybe I should have told him about coming to Germany beforehand, after all?

And then he suddenly starts laughing softly. Just sits there, shaking his head, laughing to himself. I feel a smile sneaking onto my lips as well.

The rest of the room shifts into the background when he finally gets up and walks over to me with calm, long strides. I instinctively reach out a hand for him to take, which he does. And as our fingers meet, I can feel how the world, which hasn't spun quite rightly ever since my brother died at my side, slides back into place with a small shudder.

Ken stands before me, still not saying a word. There's wonder in his eyes, nearly awestruck in its intensity. He almost seems afraid to say something, quite as if I would dissolve into air the moment he speaks.

"Does that count as a foolish excursion?" I ask quietly, reaching back to the promise I gave him in August, when the world was still a different one.

For one or two seconds, he stares at me incredulously, then suddenly bursts out laughing. I beam up at him. "It's foolish alright," he answers finally, shaking his head. His eyes are dancing in amusement.

"Do you want me to leave?" I tease, raising both eyebrows.

"Don't you dare!" he murmurs back. Then, without further ado, he tilts up my face with one hand and kisses me – short and sweet and exactly right. And as he does, I feel the tension leave my shoulders. I am home.

As he takes a step back again, I can see regret flash in his eyes and give him a mischievous smile in return. We are not alone after all, and there's no changing that right now.

His officers and my fellow nurses, who have kept themselves in the background so far, curiously come closer now. Matt Irving is first. "Matt, Rilla. Rilla, Matt," Ken introduces us, and it is the use of first names that makes it obvious that he is introducing me to his friend, not his second-in-command.

" _Enchanté_ ," announces Matt. The hand I hold out for him to shake, he instead takes into one of his own and raises to his lips in an elegant movement.

Next to me, Ken makes a warning sound, but Matt just winks at me and I can't help a smile myself. I think I will like him.

Matt takes a step back, to be replaced by a Captain Howard and for the next few minutes, I am introduced to a bewildering number of officers, all of them very gallant and very honoured indeed, to meet me. Bryony and Lucy are whisked away to a couch and supplied with tea, but Ken's arm around my waist keeps me firmly by his side – not that I feel any inclination to be _anywhere_ else.

And the entire time, while I smile pleasantly and shake hands and try to remember names, a part of my mind is occupied with trying to find a way to make all these people disappear. I have no doubt that they are kind, brave, clever men, but right now, there is just one man I want to be with. Alone.

I am just shaking the hand of a nervous looking lieutenant, when I finally come up with the sought-for excuse. "Where's Nellie, by the way? Is she alright?" I ask abruptly, looking up at Ken.

"That beast?" murmurs Matt on my other side.

"She's well," Ken assures. "Ill weeds grow apace and all that." If my question surprises him, I don't detect a hint of it.

"I am transport officer of the battalion, Ma'am," the nervous lieutenant weighs in. "If you want, I can show you where the horses are stabled." He wrings his hands, obviously himself surprised by his courage.

Ah, drat. That's not quite what I had in mind.

But apparently, one can rely on Matt to assist in a tricky situation. He claps the poor lieutenant on the back with such force that it almost brings him to his knees. "No, Radley, she sure as hell doesn't want that," he announces.

"But…" begins Radley. Matt doesn't let him get any further. "Look here, Radley, why don't you go and look after Miss Ralston over there? Maybe you can get her a new cup of tea or something?"

He nods over to the other side of the room where, under cover of the attention demanded by Bryony, Lucy has managed to sneak away into a corner. Cup of tea in hand, she leans against a wall and watches the spectacle Bryony creates, with visible amusement.

"Well…" stammers poor Radley, "Well, if you say so, Sir…" He turns towards Lucy before hesitating for a split-second, but another whack from Matt, this time directed at his back, has him stumbling forward several steps, in Lucy's general direction.

The moment he is gone, Matt turns back to Ken and me. "Alright, you two, this might be your best chance to slip away _halfway_ unnoticed at least. I'll take care of things here while you go and look after the _horse_." He wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully and I have to laugh.

" _Matt_ ," mutters Ken warningly, but with no more effect than earlier, for Matt just grins, clearly unconcerned. He reminds me a bit of how Ken used to be before they loaded the responsibility for several hundred lives on his shoulders.

I am already turning to the door, but then pause and look over to where Bryony and Lucy are. "I promised Matron to keep an eye on them," I remark hesitatingly, torn between the wish to finally be alone with Ken and my promise to Matron Burke. I'm not very worried about Lucy, but where Bryony is concerned…

"Don't worry. They are in good hands with me," Matt assures with a little bow.

"That's what worries us in the first place," murmurs Ken ironically and Matt laughs. It doesn't seem to cause Ken that much concern though, because he looks at me questioningly. When I nod, he casts a final warning look at Matt and then proceeds to guide me gently over towards the door. Our departure doesn't remain completely unnoticed, but that hardly matters, does it? We're only going to check on the horse, after all.

The moment the door closes behind us, I find myself ensconced in Ken's arms, my back to the wall, and am kissed as thoroughly as he probably intended from the very second I stepped into the room. I mean, not that I'm complaining or anything.

Several long moments pass, and they are possibly the happiest I have experienced in a long while. Only when a door falls shut somewhere in the building and footsteps can be heard coming closer, does Ken finally draw back a little. "And here I was, thinking that the very idea of being married is about not needing to sneak around anymore," he murmurs, and his frustrated expression makes me giggle.

"Do behave!" I whisper but allow him to steal another short kiss before he takes a step back. He casts a quick glance into the direction from where the footsteps are nearing, then takes my hand and leads me out the building. With a bang, the front door falls shut behind us.

Outside though, it's teeming with soldiers, apparently all having found something terribly important to do in direct vicinity to the officers' mess. They are watching us curiously, but the moment Ken turns around to look at them, they are all very interested in their shoes all of a sudden. For a moment, Ken considers them silently, then gives an agonized groan.

"What do you think are the odds of them disappearing if I give them some kind of extra task?" he asks quietly.

"But you wouldn't!" I declare confidently. "It's Sunday, after all, and 'on the seventh day, you shall not do any work', right?"

He looks a lot like he considers raising a protest, but I don't let him. "Alright, where are the horses?" I want to know, looking around curiously.

"You don't really want to…" he begins, incredulous, before interrupting himself. Shaking his head slightly, he gazes down at me, but I just smile back innocently. "Alright, the horses," he finally sighs, offering his arm for me to take.

As we stroll through the compound under the curious eyes of his men, who all stand to attention and salute when we pass, I properly take in my surroundings for the first time. It looks more like a factory than barracks, to be honest.

"What was here before you came?" I enquire.

"Dynamite Factory. Mostly grenades and poison gas," Ken answers matter-of-factly.

Of all possible places…

"Strange place to quarter humans," I point out.

He shrugs. "It actually makes for rather good billets. There's beds for everyone and running water and stoves in every hut. Even the horses have running water for their troughs. You've seen our casino – it used to be the factory directors' club," he replies. "Besides, there's a big German army parade ground over in Wahn, which we can use. All things considered, we often enough had billets much worse than this."

Which might be correct and all, but still… a _munitions factory_?

"Do you see over there?" Ken asks, pointing towards a building that looks damaged somehow.

When I nod, he continues, "They filled the shells with explosives and probably also gas over there in that building. Two days before the Armistice, there was an explosion. Either an accident or sabotage – the director wasn't very forthcoming with information. As far as I know though, more than a hundred people died, most of them female workers."

A shiver runs down my spine. To think that so many people lost their lives right here, only two days before the war ended…

"You know, every day, even when you were on that horrible ambulance train, I was grateful that you at least weren't working in one of the munitions factories," Ken remarks. He sounds awfully serious all of a sudden.

I nod slowly. No one who was in England during the war could have helped coming across the female workers of the munitions factories there. _Canary girls_ , they call them, because the TNT turns their skin yellow, making them instantly recognisable. And though I don't know it for sure – they would never have allowed the papers to report it – I still fear that such accidents happened in the English factories as well.

"Well, yellow is _really_ not my colour," I reply in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Ken smiles weakly, but there's something in his eyes that tells me about how worried he must have been for me. We will need to talk about this, as I well know, but not here and now, with dozens of his men around.

For a fraction of a second, Ken reaches out his free hand and touches my face, then he abruptly turns his head away. "Over there are the tents where we stable the horses," he points out, voice very controlled.

We _will_ need to talk about it. About this, and much more besides.

When we enter the tent, we are greeted by the usual stable odour. The horses are arranged in long lines, some turning to look at us as we walk past. Most of them, at least a good three dozen, are heavy draught houses with hooves the size of plates and gentle eyes. Additionally, there are nine smaller pack cobs with tousled manes and intelligent faces. At the end of the tent are the officers' horses, twelve in total. The moment we have reached them, a chestnut head suddenly darts forward and snatches at the air where Ken's arm was just a split second earlier.

"Hello Nellie," he greets the mare good-naturedly. In reply, she swishes her tail, clearly annoyed.

"She's not changed a bit, I see," I remark with an ironic little smile.

Ken shrugs, but he looks amused as well. "Ill weeds, as I said," he reminds.

And even though such a description logically ought to provoke another attack, Nellie's ears suddenly flicker forward. She raises her head, ears firmly pricked, and looks straight at the tent's entrance, as if under a spell.

"Pat," Ken explains drily.

I just want to ask what that's supposed to mean again, when I see a young private enter the tent. Nellie whinnies in greeting.

Of course, I remember now. Pat is Ken's batman and, apart from the goat, the only being tolerated by Nellie. (Whatever happened to the goat, I wonder?)

"Hello, my girl," Pat calls out to the mare, who answers with another whinny. Only then does he see Ken and me and halts abruptly. His hand flies up into a salute and only when Ken motions for him to move, does he relax a little and come towards us.

"Sir," he greets. His eyes flit over to me several times, much as he tries to keep them concentrated on Ken. Nellie stretches her neck and tries to shove her muzzle into Pat's pockets.

"Rilla, this is Patrick Lowe," Ken introduces us. "Pat, this is…" He interrupts himself, frowning slightly, and looks over to me.

Of course. It's one thing to call me his wife in front of his fellow officers, but with the men it's different. And yet… I know a little about how important this young man has become to him over the years. The relationship between officer and batman is often a close one and that's certainly the case here. It wouldn't feel right to tell a lie, even one of omission.

"His wife," I therefore complete Ken's sentence and smile at the young man. "I am pleased to meet you, Private Lowe."

Shyly, he smiles back. "Please call me Pat, Ma'am. Or… should I say 'Sister'? Mrs Colonel?" Helpless, he turns his gaze towards Ken, who hands over the question to me with the raise of an eyebrow.

What – or _who_ – do I want to be here then?

One or two seconds pass, but in truth, the decision is already made. " _Mrs Colonel_ sounds about right, doesn't it?" I answer cheerfully and extend a hand towards Pat. After an initial second of fright, he takes it very cautiously and gives it a quick shake.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Colonel," he replies, and it sounds both very formal and utterly honest. The effect is slightly dampened by Nellie, refusing to be ignored any longer, giving him a firm push with her head.

With an indulgent smile, Pat strokes her forehead and she obviously seems to enjoy it, for she flops her ears to the side and even lets her lower lip hang a little. Who would have thought there was such a lamb hidden under the wolf's clothing?

"If you don't need us, Sir, I meant to take Nellie outside to get some fresh air," Pat explains in Ken's direction.

"Feel free," Ken remarks with a nod and Pat quickly unties the mare's lead rope and asks her to follow him with a soft click of his tongue.

"Sir, Mrs Colonel," he says, offering another salute, which Ken returns before he dismisses him.

Thoughtfully, Ken looks after his batman and the mare, trotting after him meek as a lamb. "I am considering buying her for him," he tells me.

Turning his head away and looking down at me, he adds, "It looks like us officers will be given the opportunity to buy our riding horses. I have no use for a horse and Nellie doesn't like me anyway, but it feels wrong to separate those two. Is that very sentimental of me, what do you think?" He lifts up the left corner of his mouth in a lopsided smile and I laugh quietly.

"It sure is. But I also think it would make him very happy," I reply.

"Yes, that's what I thought," Ken agrees and almost looks a little bit relieved, which does surprise me. Does he really need my permission for that?

He, though, is still talking, "Even more so, as things wouldn't look too bright for Nellie otherwise. They'll likely give some of the draught horses to the French and Belgian civilians, but there are just too many of them. And as beautiful as she is, Nellie is no workhorse, quite apart from her difficult character."

"What happens to the others? Those they don't find a new home for," I ask, despite already fearing what the answer may be.

"I reckon they'll slaughter them," Ken answers, something like regret in his voice.

But when I pull a face, he raises his shoulders slightly. "Animals are animals. And people have to eat," he reminds me.

Which is probably the truth, but if one considers that these animals survived the hell of war, it somehow seems… wrong to just slaughter them like that, after it's all over.

"It's the way of the world, even if we don't like it," Ken says comfortingly, squeezing my hand, and for a moment, I squeeze back. I suppose he's right.

"And speaking about having to eat," he quickly adds, probably to distract me, "It should be time for lunch soon. Do you want to go back?"

Back to where there are other people?

 _Hm._

Thoughtfully, I look from him to the entrance and back again. "You know what?" I ask. "I think I have a better idea…"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'There's a Long Long Trail A-Winding' from 1914 (lyrics by Stoddard King, music by Alonzo Elliott)._


	67. And even so, I still remain

_December 22_ _nd_ _, 1918  
Lind near Cologne, Germany_

 **And even so, I still remain**

"So, this is how you live," I remark as I enter the room and turn around once, to get a good look at it. Bed, desk, chest of drawers, a couple of shelves. Not very luxurious, but comfortable enough.

"It's not really representative of my lodgings over these past few years," Ken replies drily. He is still leaning against the doorframe, watching me openly adoring.

"What would be representative?" I enquire curiously.

He shrugs. "Well, that's the question, isn't it? I slept in holes in the ground and I slept in castles. I don't think there's any single place to represent that."

"Castles? Really?" I ask, mostly so I don't have to comment on the holes on the ground.

Another shrug. "If we found a castle to be requisitioned, we requisitioned it. You need something to make up for the holes, after all," is the laconic answer. "By the way, they established the Headquarters of the Canadian Corps over in Palais Schaumburg in Bonn. It used to belong to a sister of the Kaiser and they say that General Currie sleeps in the room previously reserved for the Kaiser's use."

"Strange thought," I murmur. Our Canadian general, in a bedroom for emperors. Sure, it's the victors who lay down the rules of the game, but… it remains curious.

Turning towards a new thought, I ask, "Is the Kaiser still in Holland?"

"As far as I know," answers Ken.

"When do you think they will put him on trial?" I wonder.

Ken frowns, thoughtfully. "They can only do that once the Dutch have given him up. No idea if they actually intend to do that."

Surprised, I look over to him. "What? You're saying he could just get away with it?" I want to know, feeling indignant.

"Possible," Ken admits with a nod. "Only… do you really think that would be so very bad?" He is gazing at me intently now.

"Of course, it would be! It would be unfair to let him get away," I insist, brows knitting into a frown.

"You're right, it would be unfair," he agrees. "On the other hand, what could be gained by punishing him? Imagine we let him hang – what then? It won't bring back those who are gone if we kill yet another man. Revenge won't bring them back."

It won't bring back Walter. Or Jerry. That's what he is saying.

"But maybe it would make us feel better about it?" I argue, though my protest is already a little less firm.

"Maybe," Ken concedes. "And yet, we have already offered the God of War enough sacrifices that it must suffice for a lifetime at least. There's no need for more dead, not even if it's the Kaiser."

"I'm not saying they ought to hang him," I clarify. "But wouldn't it be good if we could at least assess his guilt? They could do it in front of a real court, as far as I am concerned. He just shouldn't be allowed to run away like that. It's…" I break off.

A small smile has appeared on Ken's lips. "Cowardly?" he asks.

"Cowardly," I nod. "His soldiers didn't run, did they? So, he shouldn't get to do it either."

The smile disappears. "No, they truly didn't run," he sighs. "And I suppose you are right. We _should_ find out who is at fault for this… slaughter. I don't only mean the Kaiser, for there were very many people who had a hand in this. I just have little hope of that actually happening."

"Please tell me you're not trying to convince me that the Kaiser is blameless in this?" I ask, eyeing him warily.

Ken smiles at my expression and shakes his head. "No. He carries a lot of blame, as do his politicians and generals. The Germans struck the spark, no questions about it. But politics is a dirty business and hardly ever as clear as it might seem at first glance. I don't think the war would have been possible but for a whole lot of old men in a whole lot of countries wanting it. Not _this_ war, I'll give them that, but war nonetheless. But I suppose that'll be a question for historians to answer." This, with a sigh.

Victors lay down the rules of the game. And victors write history.

"But now the war is over," I remind him, walking over and putting my arms around his neck. He kisses my forehead before gently pulling my head down on his shoulder.

"It is," he confirms quietly. "And yet, I hope you won't misunderstand if I say that it is still a very surreal thought at times. For four years, I lived war. I _breathed_ it. I have no words to express how relieved I am at it finally being over, but…"

"The future is suddenly very big and obscure, isn't it?" I ask when he doesn't say anything else. I know what he means.

His arms pull me a little closer. "You're right," he agrees. "Though I have to say that is suddenly makes much more sense now that I have you here with me."

I turn my head to smile at him, getting up on my tiptoes. "At your service," I murmur against his lips. Then I kiss him, feel him respond, and _finally_ , we seem to be getting somewhere, when suddenly…

Ken hears the footsteps outside in the hall the very second I do. Abruptly, he raises his head, pushes me a step or two backwards and closes the door with a kick of his heel. Glaring at the door – or whatever is behind it – he curses softly.

I stand in the middle of the room, watching Ken, who is visibly frustrated and now mutters something about hikes in full gear, and the whole situation is so utterly _absurd_ that I instinctively start laughing. Ken looks at me, initially surprised, before he seems to understand, and a rueful smile appears on his face.

"There's just no privacy here," he defends himself, shaking his head slightly.

"Oh, I'd say we have plenty of privacy _now_ ," I point out cheerfully. "Is anybody allowed to come in here without express permission?" I gaze through the room pointedly, letting my eyes rest on the now closed door for a second or two, before turning back to Ken.

"Just Pat. And Matt has been known to come in anyway," he answers. His voice is matter-of-fact, but there's something mischievous in his eyes that I've missed previously.

I nod, pleased. "And seeing as they are both still occupied with taking care of their own female company, I don't think we have to fear either of them interrupting us any time soon," I point out with a nod towards Bryony and Lucy on one hand, Nellie on the other.

Ken watches me for a moment or two. "You might be right about that…" he admits pensively. He stretches out a hand towards me, but with a quick turn, I have manoeuvred myself out of his reach.

"I wanted to see how you live," I remind him blithely.

I think I can hear him groan softly, but I don't turn back around, instead stroll over to the desk. On it, there are papers and maps, which do not interest me much, but also a foldable photo frame that I now pick up.

On the left side of the frame, there is a picture of Ken and Persis and their parents. It appears to be at least ten years old, for Persis has her hair still in braids and Ken looks impossibly young as well. They are both wearing what looks to be school uniform. For a moment, it puzzles me that he would take such an old picture, but really only for a moment. It is a picture taken in simpler times.

From the right side of the frame, my own face looks back at me. The picture belongs to a series of photographs taken by Colette and her Box Brownie camera on our wedding day. I always have one with me as well, but mine shows both of us while this is just of me.

I look at the picture for several seconds – and suddenly start laughing.

"What's the matter?" asks Ken as he steps behind me.

" _This_ is why every man in your battalion knows me as 'the girl from the picture'," I realise, still laughing.

"Well, I surely didn't see any reason to hide it," he replies easily.

He slips both arms around my waist and settles his chin on the top of my head. In turn, I move my head to the side to dislodge him and he laughs. "Obviously not," I agree.

Eyeing my picture-self critically, I remark, "I have to give it to Persis. She was right in forcing me into a new dress. Especially seeing as it is a very pretty dress." This with a favourable thought back to my dark green wedding dress.

"That it is," Ken retorts quickly, " _My Lady Greensleeves_."

"Bluesleeves, surely?" I suggest, raising my arm to show him the blue sleeve of my uniform.

Ken, however, shakes his head stubbornly. "Greensleeves," he insists. "Because I really wouldn't mind never having to see you in that particular shade of blue again."

That settles that, then.

"And no more khaki on you?" I bargain.

"Deal." He nods, without a moment of hesitation.

Then he takes the photo frame from my hand, placing it carelessly down on the desk, and turns me around in his arms. He slowly moves us through the room and after a moment, I can hear him humming softly. It only takes seconds until I recognize the melody.

 _Greensleeves_.

Of course.

 _Greensleeves was all my joy,  
Greensleeves was my delight,  
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,  
And who but my lady greensleeves._

I let my head rest against his shoulder and close my eyes for a moment. We are moving slowly, just swaying on the spot, and I have to think of our sole other shared dance, on the evening of our wedding. It's somehow hard to believe that it's been only half a year since then. So much has happened.

Raising my head a little, I look up at Ken and when our eyes meet, he smiles and lightly kisses my forehead.

"I won't shed a tear when you finally lose the veil either, by the way," he informs me. The hand on my back travels upwards, reaching for my veil and giving it a little tug.

"Oh, that," I reply. "Well, we can do something about the veil." Detangling my hands from his, I take off the veil with practiced fingers, pull out a couple of hair pins and finally shake out my now loose hair. "Better?"

"Much," he murmurs back. With both hands, he pushes the hair behind my ears before stilling them to gently hold my face. For several long moments, we just look at each other. There's some kind of awe in his eyes which I am not sure I deserve, but who am I to argue?

Instinctively, I start learning his face anew, committing every line and every contour to memory, right until he finally leans forward and kisses me.

His arms slide downwards, enfolding me, pulling me closer, and I nestle into them. Softly, I sigh against his lips, earning a sound from deep in his throat in response. With a quiet clatter, the hair pins fall to the floor, the veil floating after them soundlessly and –

A loud knock on the door.

" _Goddammit_!" growls Ken. For a moment, he touches my forehead with his own, eyes firmly closed, his lips forming silent curses. I put a hand under his chin, raising his head slightly.

"Go and look who's there. I'll wait right here," I promise, biting back a smile.

The gaze he regards me with is actually a little wary, but then it turns into one of resignation and he acquiesces with a nod. His arms release me, and he already starts to turn for the door, when he suddenly moves back toward me, kissing me once more for no longer than three seconds and yet in a way that actually makes my knees go weak.

"Don't run away," he murmurs before pulling away abruptly and crossing the room in long strides. He opens the door just far enough, so he can enter the hall, pulling it close behind him without shutting it completely.

" _What is it_?" I hear him snap and feel almost sorry for the poor chap out there who dared to knock.

Seeing as I'm still not quite sure if I can fully trust my legs, I take some steps over the bed and let myself sink down on it. On the bed stand I spy half a dozen letters with my own writing on them as well as a copy of Dickens' _Great Expectations_. It is still cracked open, lying there spine up, so I reach for it and close it, sliding one of my letters between the pages to mark the place. When I put the book back on the bed stand, I accidentally dislodge a small, dark object, causing it to fall to the floor.

Bending down to retrieve the object, I realise it's a notebook, the black leather binding worn and cracked. It has fallen open, showing me two pages covered in inky writing. Just as I mean to put the book back, my gaze falls on one of the entries and I pause.

 _Pte. Hall Killed 8-8-18._

Part of me knows I am not supposed to continue reading, but there's nothing I can do. My gaze wanders to the next entry of its own accord.

 _L/C Spratlin Killed 8-8-18._

As if in trance, I read on.

 _Pte. Webb Killed 8-8-18._

 _Pte. Schofield Wounded 8-8-18 (Died of Wounds)._

 _Pte. Stout Wounded 8-8-18 (Died of Wounds)._

 _Pte. Hopkins Killed 8-8-18._

The entire notebook is filled like that. Every line another man, everyone apparently dead. I count more than 50 names for August 8th of this year alone. It's Ken's handwriting, but it has never felt so unfamiliar before.

Almost imperceptibly, my lips form the unknown names as I continue reading. " _Pte. Rainey Wounded 8-8-18 (Died of Wounds). Pte. Windgarden Killed 8-8-18._ "

" _Pte. Rasmussen_ _Killed 8-8-18. Pte. Clunie Killed 8-8-18. Pte. Rowell Wounded 8-8-18 (Died of Wounds)_ ," another voice takes up the litany of names.

Abruptly, I raise my head. Ken stands next to the bed, looking down at me. He looks sad and somehow, incredibly tired.

"You have memorised them. The names," I realise.

"Not all of them," he corrects. "Not yet. I am learning September 1918 right now. In the last weeks, we lost so many that I just couldn't keep up."

He puts a key down on the bed stand, then sits down next to me, taking the notebook from my now limp hands. He flicks through it once, holding out the first page for me to see. The very first entry is from March 1915.

"These are all men who died under my command," he remarks, looking down at the little book pensively. His fingers leaf through it again, this time in the other direction.

"I hope to be able to cross out some of the missing ones when the last POWs return," he adds, showing me another page.

 _Pve. Lamb Missing 27-9-18._

 _Pve. Taylor Missing 27-9-18._

 _Pve. Hesketh Missing 27-9-18._

 _Pve. Sturm Missing 27-9-18._

I wonder how many names there are in this book and yet, am not sure if I even really want to know the answer.

"Did you know them?" I ask instead. My voice sounds strangely breathy.

Ken's fingers flick back to the first pages of the notebook. "Those who died in the beginning, I did know. I had a platoon under my command then, maybe 50 men. You know all of those," he answers slowly. "It's harder with a company and impossible with a battalion. Especially because the new recruits made a habit of dying almost immediately. We always used to say that if someone made it through their first proper battle, they had the worst behind them. Only that most of the reinforcements didn't survive their first battle. Barely more than children and dead in two weeks."

He keeps is gaze lowered at the book. His voice sounds a little absent. As if he is very far away.

"I always think that if I didn't know _them_ , it's at least good and proper for me to know their _names_ ," he continues. "They followed my orders. The least I can do is to know who I sent to their deaths, don't you think?" He raises his head, looks at me. His expression is outwardly calm, but in his eyes, I can see how shaken he truly is.

"I don't know," I reply cautiously. "Does it change anything?"

For a moment, he seems to consider that. "For them? No. But maybe for me."

 _Penance_ , I suddenly realise. This is his way of trying to atone.

Ken has turned back to the book. It's not aimlessly that he browses the pages now, but neither is he actually searching for something. I have a feeling he knows exactly which entry he wants to show me and is equally certain of where to find it. After several seconds, he pauses. Then, he holds the book out for me to see, pointing out a specific line.

 _Lieut. Henry Nichols._

I know that, while Walter was Ken's best friend from childhood days, Henry Nichols took up that role in school, at university and, later, in the war. I never knew him, for he was dead by the time I met up with Ken again. He speaks of him only seldom and that, more than anything, tells me how much the loss still pains him, even two years later.

"When I was younger, I always wanted a brother. I love Persis, even though she could be a holy terror as a child, but I always envied Walter his brothers," Ken remarks softly. "And then there was the war and suddenly, for the first time, I was grateful for not having brothers. It took my two best friends from me, that war, and that was bad enough. When Henry died… for a long time, I was adrift. It was a little easier with Walter – I think I had somehow gotten used to it by then – but hard enough."

He looks up, searching for my gaze. "Though I admit that it's not really my place. Walter was _your_ brother," he adds.

I meet his eyes openly while thinking over my answer. "Grief is grief. You need no one's permission for it," I finally reply, choosing my words carefully. I raise my hand to touch his face and he covers it with one of his own for a moment, before closing his fingers around mine and pulling our entwined hands down to rest between us.

"Sometimes, I am scared that they won't ever let me go," he admits hesitatingly. "All of them. Sometimes I think I won't ever be able to step out of their shadow. So often, I have to think about how they died and somehow…"

He breaks off, but I know what he means. "You never really leave that moment, do you?" I ask quietly. "In a way, you always stay caught in that one moment, trying to think your way out of it. Going through every possibility, again and again, for the hundredth or thousandth time, wondering if there _really_ wasn't anything you could have done differently. And it doesn't matter how often you realise that there was no way to change it. On the next day, it starts all over again." I am almost surprised myself at how calm my voice sounds.

Ken is watching me intently, his eyes searching my face. "Walter," he says quietly.

I nod. "Yes. Not only him, but… him most of all. Logically, I know there was nothing I could have done for him, but there's still a part of me thinking I ought to have been able to save him." I expect tears to come, but they don't. Instead, I meet Ken's gaze very calmly. After a second, he turns away.

"I wanted to come to you," he murmurs and suddenly, his voice trembles. "When I heard about Walter, I wanted to drop everything and rush to your side. The thought of you being utterly alone with this… your letters were almost unbearable. And then there was Jem's wire, telling me you were ill…"

He doesn't finish, instead taking a deep breath, still not looking at me.

"I was useless. At least we were behind the front line because I was absolutely no good as a commander anymore. I was stuck in that castle in Montingy and… nothing mattered anymore. Even when news about the armistice reached us, it didn't mean anything to me. For four years, I somehow bore everything this war cared to throw at me, but the thought of losing you was too much. I haven't spoken a word of prayer ever since coming here, but I begged God not to take you. There were nights when I was only comforted by the knowledge of the front not being far away."

What…?

Oh.

He would have…?

I don't finish the thought. It's much too horrible.

Instead, I put a hand on either side of his face, gently turning it towards me. "I am here. We both are. The war is over, the flu is gone," I remind him softly. "It's _over_."

"Sometimes, that's still hard to believe," he remarks.

Yes, it is. It's becoming more seldom, but I still wake up at times and think that it was all just a dream. That there's no way for the war to be actually over and done with.

"You don't believe in anything anyway, remember?" I gently tease him. His pain hurts me and I long to see him smile again.

He does me the favour. It's only hesitatingly, but something akin to a smile finds its way onto his lips. "I believe in you. In us," he replies.

And I suppose there are worse things to believe in.

Sliding a hand behind his neck, I pull him down a little, moving closer myself and touching his lips with my own. It's a cautious kiss, almost shy, as if we both need to find out how to fit together again. Beneath my fingers, I can feel the tightened muscles in his shoulders, but when I press closer, opening my lips to his, I feel the strain starting to leave him. His arms enfold me, and I don't know if I've ever felt this safe.

Slowly, I slide backwards, pulling him with me – when he suddenly pulls away instead. He still stays close enough so that I can feel his breath on my face, but his hand reaches up, stilling my fingers, which had managed to get as far as the collar of his tunic.

"We really should go back. Lunch has to be over by now. The others must be wondering where we are," he remarks. I can see that it is a fight for him to even say the words. To truly pull away from me, his strength obviously doesn't suffice.

"My darling Kenneth," I reply, gently teasing, " _No one_ is wondering where we are."

He blinks, then nods slightly to accept my point. "Doesn't that bother you?" he asks.

"Not enough," I answer truthfully.

Another nod, but he still hesitates. His arms never let go of me, but he keeps a few inches of distance between us.

And so, I lean forward, kissing him very softly. "I don't want to feel broken anymore," I whisper against his lips.

A moment, then his lips are back on mine and his arms hold me close, as he carefully lays me back down on the bed.

For perhaps he his right. Perhaps it's enough to believe in _us_.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Greensleeves' from the 16th century, first published in 1580 (source unknown)_

 _All names mentioned in this chapter (except for Henry Nichols) belong to real soldiers who served with the battalion I sorted Ken into. They all lost their lives in the war._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_ _  
I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter and hope this one agreed with you as well! As for Ken, I know he is somewhat different from RoI-Ken, but even in the book, we only really see him pre-war. We are never shown how war changes him and with a war like that, everyone must come out of it changed to some degree. This Ken here is my attempt at writing him how he might be during and after the war, with a couple of years and much more responsibility added. And in a way, Matt is a bit like I think Ken would have been, had there never been a war at all. (That particular munitions factory, by the way, really existed. The explosion, sadly, happened in real life as well.)_


	68. I'll leave the mem'ries

_December 25_ _th_ _, 1918  
_ _No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Bonn, Germany_

 **I'll leave the mem'ries**

"Hey there, slow down a bit!" I chide the patient, who, in his hurry to leave the bed, almost falls out of it. Quickly catching his arm, I wait until he has regained his balance, standing on one leg as he is.

"But Sister…" he starts to protest. I silence him with a shake of the head.

"If you aren't careful, you'll go and break the other foot as well," I warn him and press down on his shoulder, so that he has little choice but to sit back on the bed again.

He suffers from a fatigue fracture to the left foot, probably incurred when they had the soldiers march across Belgium in November and early December. He appears to have kept on walking on the fractured foot for a while longer, because what began as a hairline crack widened considerably with time and shifted besides. There's no way he'll be spared an operation, but at least his time in Germany is now surely coming to a close. If he's lucky, he'll find himself on a ship to England before the year is out – and from England, Canada isn't so very far.

"Here, wait a second," I command him while taking in the rest of the ward with a quick glance. All the while, I keep one hand on his shoulder, lest he get any funny ideas. It only takes a moment or two before my eyes find the orderly whom I sent out some minutes ago to fetch a wheelchair.

When he comes towards us with said wheelchair, my petulant patient pulls a face. "I can't meet General Currie in that thing!" he protests.

"You won't have a choice in the matter," I inform him blithely. "Either you get in the wheelchair or you'll greet General Currie lying in bed."

His eyes widen in shock. "I could never, Sister!" he exclaims.

I nod. "That's what I thought. Hence the wheelchair," I point out.

He pouts. Then, making out another patient, currently trying to navigate the ward on two crutches, he cocks his head to the side. "Can't I…" he begins, suddenly hopefully.

"Certainly not!" I interrupt him, quickly and firmly.

"And why not?" he asks grudgingly.

For a second, I am tempted to answer by saying "because I say so", but I suppose that could hardly be considered professional, so I swallow the words again. Instead I reply, very matter-of-factly, "Because it's too dangerous. You could lose your balance and if that happens, you'd either fall outright or end up putting weight on your fractured foot. If your bones shift even more, it'll be much longer before you can walk again. I don't want that, and you surely can't want it either."

He sighs, visibly frustrated. A moment of hesitation, then he moves his head. It's just a tiny movement, but I take it as agreement. "Wonderful!" I declare with more verve than I feel. "Then let's get you in."

I nod at the orderly, who has followed our conversation with little interest, and together, we help the patient settle. I place a blanket on his legs and send both of them off with a wave of a hand. And while I look after them, I allow myself a slight shake of the head.

 _That_ was needlessly difficult.

When they have left the ward, I turn back around, take some steps towards the next bed. The patient is asleep, his head restlessly turning from side to side. His cheeks are pale, the eyes darkly rimmed. He had a splinter in his hand, which caused a nasty case of blood poisoning that he is still fighting.

Instinctively, my hand reaches into my apron pocket where I normally keep my thermometer, but when my fingers feel only cloth, I remember that this thermometer, too, hasn't survived long in my keeping. Today, on the morning round, I gave it to a patient to take his temperature and didn't get a good hold of it when taking it back, causing it to shatter on the ward's floor. Now, I can't say for sure that two days is a new record, but it should be up there.

Robbed of my thermometer, I have to rely on my hand. However, seeing as this isn't the first time _by far_ that I find myself thus, I have quite some practice in estimating someone's temperature. I lay my hand on forehead, cheeks and neck of the patient. He is much too warm, but not burning up in the way he was yesterday. Still, he'll miss General Currie's visit, for I certainly won't wake him now.

Pulling the blanket tight around him, I make sure that he has something to drink within reach, before I straighten again. Quite by chance, my gaze falls on a young private, sitting on a bed on the other side of the aisle. He has a broken arm in a sling but looks quite cheerful otherwise. He even dangles his legs jauntily.

"Don't you want to go outside to meet General Currie?" I ask him kindly as I move closer to him.

He just shrugs his shoulders, his legs continuing to dangle. "It won't make a difference to the General if I'm there or not, will it, Sister?" he replies. He doesn't even sound rebellious or sullen when saying it, just very matter-of-fact and a little disinterested.

I know that Ken regards General Currie as one of the best commanders on the western front and I wouldn't ever question that, but when we nurses were introduced to him earlier today, I had to think of another word he used to describe the General: aloof.

The soldiers seem to have a marked respect for Currie on the whole, but he isn't the kind of man to arouse an enthusiastic following. He is, indeed, too aloof for that. His men do appear to value his grasp on tactical matters though, and how it has brought them through many a battle. In any case, it is generally regarded as a great honour that he and his entourage have decided to visit our CCS today.

"Maybe not. Don't you want to see him though?" I ask now.

The private shrugs again. "No," he responds simply.

I take the remaining steps and come to stand beside his bed. "Do you want to tell me why?" I suggest carefully.

The dangling legs still. A moment of hesitation. "Because of Mons, Sister," he finally answers.

Mons. In the very last days of war, while the armistice was already being negotiated in Compiègne, the Canadians were ordered to take back Mons. There were casualties. Whether it was necessary or not, I cannot say. But I can see why it would be a reason for not wanting to see the General.

"In that case, you might want to look for another hiding place," I explain to the private. "I can't promise you that he definitely won't want to visit the bed-bound patients on this ward."

The man looks up, surprised. Then, a smile climbs onto his face. Swinging his legs back and forward once, he jumps to his feet. "If that's so, I think I'm going to take a walk," he announces with sudden vigour.

"You do that. But dress warmly, please," I ask him, only realizing belatedly that it makes me sound like his mother.

"Will do, Sister," he promises, saluting awkwardly with his left hand. He reaches for his coat and strolls over to the door leading to the corridor. Once there, he stops and turns back around for a moment. "Thank you, Sister," he says earnestly.

"You're welcome. Now go and enjoy your walk," I reply, and he nods and smiles and turns to leave the room.

I, on the other hand, walk over to the three appendicitis cases at the other end of the ward. Two of them are awake, but the third is fast asleep. He's in a pretty bad state and as I lay a hand on his forehead, I can't help wondering if he's going to make it.

It's a little strange not to be treating war wounds anymore. We still only treat soldiers, mostly Canadians and some Imperials, but they are usually sent to us because of illnesses or accidents. The wounds, therefore, are much less serious than anything we've seen in the past years. Sure, accidents can end badly as well – only three days ago, a despatch rider died here after having collided with a lorry – but they do so much more rarely than an encounter with a shell.

"Sister?" says one of the appendicitis patients, jolting me back into the present.

"Yes? Are you in pain?" I ask quickly, walking around the bed of the sleeping patient to be closer.

"Do you think we might attend the Christmas dinner?" he wants to know, his voice hopeful. The patient on his other side nods eagerly.

I hesitate. They both seem to be better, but all three of them came in with large suppurations about the appendix and thus, they aren't out of danger yet. "I'm not sure if that's wise," I reply slowly.

"But Sister!" he immediately retorts. "We weren't allowed to greet the General either. You could let us go to the dinner at least. It's Christmas, after all!"

Well, I can hardly deny _that_.

Feeling torn, I look at the two of them, both regarding me through wide, pleading eyes. They are still very pale and, objectively speaking, too weak to attend the festivities, but on the other hand… it _is_ Christmas.

"Alright," I finally relent, causing both their faces to brighten.

" _But_!" I continue, and the faces fall again, "You'll be brought there in your beds and you'll _stay_ inside your beds. And no eating. Nothing at all. Not the tiniest little crumb. Do you promise that?"

Eager nodding is my answer. "We promise, Sister," assures one. "Cross my heart!" adds the other one.

"Fine. Because there'll be no use in complaining to me if your infection worsens again," I warn them. I just about manage to suppress the urge to raise a finger in warning, but they already look suitably admonished. I am reasonably sure that they'll keep away from the Christmas food.

I organize two orderlies to push them outside in their beds. And one after the other, most of my other patients are fetched for the Christmas dinner as well, until only the third appendicitis case, the man with blood poisoning and a patient with a bad concussion are left. They all three need rest, so it's better for them to remain here.

Christmas dinner for the patients is served in our biggest ward, where they have put up a row of tables, with beds on either side for the lying patients. The normal ranks among the personnel will have their celebration in their recreation room in the afternoon, while for doctors and nurses a festive dinner is planned in the mess for the evening. All the rooms are decorated lavishly, with Christmas trees and Christmas stockings and everything else befitting a Christmas party.

The Red Cross sent us a rich supply of donations, in addition to packages from other organizations and even private persons from Canada. I suppose this dinner will be richer than anything our patients have eaten since coming overseas. Our spoil is so impressive that I almost felt bad when the usual Christmas parcels from Canada arrived for me. Because in addition to all those donations, there seem to be few scruples around here at clearing out the German cellars as well.

Still, to send back my parcels is hardly an option and would likely only incur disappointment, so I ended up dividing the contents. I kept a little of it for myself and put some aside for Ken, before distributing the rest among the patients in my ward. They were very grateful, so I suppose that's alright after all.

With the parcels, the usual Christmas letters arrived as well. Letters from home, from Mum and Dad, from Faith, from Una, even a scrawled attempt from young Ian. From Toronto, there were letters from Di and Mildred and Nan, who, even after the other two's recovery, shows little inclination to return home. Good for her though. Maybe a change of scenery is exactly what she needs.

Several of my old colleagues and friends wrote as well, in addition to a couple of former patients with whom I am still in contact. Persis sent a letter from Rouen, which made me feel relieved, because I had been worried about her and this letter, at least, sounded more cheerful again. From Hastings, there was a humorous letter from Jem, while Shirley sent a letter that was quieter but equally caring. He's still in Belgium, currently somewhere near Brussels. It's been more than six months since I last saw Shirley and the thought of him being so close and yet unreachable does hurt a little. But the army hasn't released us from its control just because the war is over – and I suppose I did choose my current posting, after all.

What hurt far worse were the Christmas greetings that didn't come – _couldn't_ come. It's the first Christmas without Susan's monkey face cookies and without a kind, encouraging, hopeful word from Walter. When I realized it this morning, the pain was strong enough to take my breath away.

It's not as raw as it was some weeks ago, the pain. Not as sore. They start to become more seldom, the moments when I find myself wondering what Susan would have said to the revolutions shaking Europe, causing crowns to roll every which way, or when I want to write Walter about the marvel of the first snowdrop of the year. Time, I suppose, numbs every pain in the end – though it still feels almost treacherous, to have it hurting a little less.

Sighing softly, I rub my face in my hands. When lowering the hands again, I am surprised to see a soldier in uniform stand between the empty beds. Turning his cap between his fingers, he watches me nervously and it takes a moment –

"Moustache!"

He looks decidedly puzzled. "What did you say, Ma'am?" he asks shyly.

I bite back a smile. "Nothing. Nothing at all, Private Smith," I assure him while coming closer.

"Corporal Smith, now, Ma'am. Do you see?" With obvious pride, he points at the stripes, denoting him as a corporal.

"Of course. Forgive me, _Corporal_ Smith," I apologise. "But say, how are you?"

"Very well, Ma'am. It's kind of you to ask. I am very well," he assures.

And indeed, he looks well. His complexion is healthy, he looks stronger than I remember him to be and his moustache is less sparse than it was in the spring of 1917.

For a moment, I consider asking him how Goatee is doing, but there's the danger of awaking painful memories of poor Beardless and I don't want to hurt him needlessly.

"The CO sent me," Moustache adds. "He asked me to bring you something. He… he specifically asked for me to do it. He said you might be happy to see me." He lowers his head, two bright red spots blooming on his cheeks.

"And he is right. I am very pleased to see you," I assure kindly.

He raises his head cautiously and there is a shy, hopeful smile on his lips that fills me with wonder. After everything he has undoubtedly seen and _lost_ , there is still something so pure about him that was already rare before the war and now is even rarer still. Not even the war was enough to make a cynic out of Moustache and for some reason, that pleases me immensely.

Maybe this world isn't wholly lost after all.

While I regard him silently, Moustache procures a small parcel, enveloped in brown packing paper, and holds it out for me to take. "Here, Ma'am. The CO sends you this," he adds, quite superfluously.

I take the parcel, turn it between my fingers. It seems to be a small book. But I won't open it now.

"I am grateful to you for bringing this to me, my dear Corporal Smith," I thank the man in front of me. His face immediately turns red again.

"It was no effort, Ma'am. I am sure the CO would have liked to have given it to you himself, but you have to understand that he can't just leave today. You must not be mad at him because of it!" The poor chap looks quite flustered at the thought.

"I am not mad," I assure him quickly. And it's the truth. We spoke about this when I was with him, which was just three days ago and feels far too long already. Would I have liked to spend Christmas with him? Sure. But he has his men and I have my patients and we have a whole lifetime's worth of Christmases to spend together. It's fine.

Moustache nods quickly. "That's good, Ma'am," he replies. "That's good."

"Please tell him 'thank you' for the present when you get back. And… and that I'll see him soon," I add. My fingers close tighter around the parcel.

"Of course, Ma'am. I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that," Moustache responds eagerly.

"And you – have a merry Christmas. And I wish you all the best in the world," I add, my voice almost catching in my throat.

He smiles shyly. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Ma'am."

Naturally, I don't allow him to leave without sharing some of my share of the Christmas parcels with him – much to his shocked protests, of course. He's no match for me though, so he finally marches off with his share, bright red in the face, while I gaze after him.

Ken was right. It was good to see him.

With a quick look at my three remaining patients I assure myself that they're still sleeping, so I take my present into a corner on the farther side of the ward.

The paper reveals a black, leather-bound notebook and for a moment, my heart stops when I think of Ken's notebook – the book with the names of all his dead – but then I see that this one is far less cracked and worn.

Slowly letting go of a breath, I cautiously turn the book in my hands. A piece of paper falls out of it and I just manage to catch it before it falls to the ground.

 _My darling,  
I've wondered for quite a while what to get you for Christmas. I bought a necklace in Belgium, gold with red stones, to replace the necklace on which you still wear our ring. Very soon, you'll be able to wear the ring on your finger where it belongs, after all. As pretty as the necklace is (and I have it here with me, so you can come collect it anytime you like), it still didn't seem the right present somehow.  
You already know that Walter sent me his poems back in summer. What you do not know is that I copied them down in a notebook. It is this notebook that I want to offer you now. You sent his poems to Canada and though I am sure that they'll be a source of great comfort to your family at home, I still think you ought to have them with you as well. In that spirit, maybe this book can be a present from us both.  
I love you.  
K._

With shaking fingers, I open the book. And there they are. Ken's writing, Walter's words. Every last one of the poems that got me through October, through those weeks without light.

I turn the pages, read words and lines and stanzas. I recognize them all, but something is different. They have lost some of their bitterness, those poems. Instead, they are a gentle greeting in a voice I was sure never to hear again.

"Sister?" I hear a cautious voice ask and abruptly raise my head.

In front of me, several steps away, stands one of the privates who is working in the hospital, a parcel in hand. The look he gives me veers between unease and concern. "Are you alright?" he asks.

I nod quickly. "I'm fine," I assure and try for a smile. With the tip of a finger, I dab away a single tear drop hanging in the corner of my eye.

He doesn't exactly look convinced, but he nods nevertheless. It's not his place to ask, after all. "This just arrived for you," he explains instead, offering me the parcel. Taking it, I smile my thanks, upon which he takes his leave with a quick salute. I reckon that emotional women are not his preferred company for Christmas Day.

The parcel is from Toronto, my name written in Di's straight letters, and that's curious because I already had a richly filled parcel from her and Nan and Mildred. Still, I carefully put my notebook into the pocket of my apron, where I know it to be secure then place the parcel on a nearby cart and open it. At least my fingers are steady once more.

The first thing I see upon having opened the parcel is a note.

 _Dear Rilla,  
I hope this reaches you in time.  
Connie and I are of the opinion that Christmas without monkey face cookies is no real Christmas, and I know you agree with us. We tried our hand at baking some yesterday, after Susan's tried and true recipe (and naturally, Nan and Milly had to rush in and recue us but that's another story). I hope they are edible.  
All my love and Merry Christmas (from the other three as well),  
Your Sister Di_

Below it, securely stored in a tin, are actual monkey face cookies.

And I suppose I must make for a curious sight, staring down at a cookie tin visibly moved, but then, these are so much _more_ than just cookies. Just like the notebook in my pocket is so much _more_ than just a notebook.

Both, the cookie tin and the notebook, are a reminder that those we love never truly leave us. I believed it would be a Christmas without Walter and Susan and the very thought hurt. But I was wrong. For yes, they have left this world. But they still remain with us, in the little things, and they will for as long as we remember them.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When I leave the world behind' from 1915 (lyrics and music by Irving Berlin)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Thank _you _for taking the time to leave such lovely reviews! I'm always so very happy to hear when someone enjoys my little story. And I'm glad I made you laugh, even more so because 'the girl in the picture' amuses me as well. So that makes two of us ;). Oh, and thanks for reminding me of 'After Blenheim'. I just re-read it and it's really very poignant!_


	69. It is the time to do and dare

_December 31_ _st_ _, 1918  
Lind near Cologne, Germany_

 **It is the time to do and dare**

"Ken isn't here," Matt greets me.

Immediately, I feel myself tense. In a fraction of a second, possible scenarios to explain his absence pass before my inner eye, one more implausible than the next. An accident, the flu, a left-behind shell at the factory, a stray bullet on the parade ground, a returned German soldier with a gun and a grudge.

Matt laughs. "Now, don't make that face. He's alright," he promises.

Slowly, I let go of a breath.

"If he is, why did you scare her like that?" Bryony demands to know, while frowning at him, clearly displeased.

"I'm sorry. That wasn't my intention," Matt is quick to appease, raising both hands.

I shake my head impatiently. "Where is he?" I ask, because that's what matters, after all.

"He led training over on the parade ground today and afterwards wanted to have a look at how work on the POW cage is progressing," Matt quickly explains.

Work on the _what_?

"What kind of cage?" Lucy voices my thought in the exact same moment.

"Oh, that. Well, they are building a kind of internment camp over at the barracks in Wahn. For returning POWs," Matt declares unconcerned. "Our battalion regularly sends out a working party to help erecting it."

Lucy pulls her eyebrows together. "But why don't they just let them go home?" she asks.

Matt shrugs. "Because sometimes, things just aren't that easy, Miss Ralston," he answers. Strictly speaking, he's not saying anything at all, but his words suffice to let us know that there's no use in asking further questions.

However, I am distracted by the sound of a nearing vehicle anyway. Craning my neck, I spy a lorry rolling through the gate onto the factory site, coming to a halt a little away from us. Ken won't be in there, seeing as the officers of the battalion were offered use of a proper automobile from the owner of a car factory not far from here. How comfortable that automobile is, we were able to see for ourselves when we were taken back to the hospital in it last Sunday.

I mean to turn towards Matt and ask when they're expecting Ken back, when a soldier jumps from the lorry and runs over to us. Skidding to a halt, he raises his hand in a hasty salute. Matt returns the salute a little slower. "What's the matter?" he asks the soldier, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Major Irving, Sir, do you know where Captain Steele is?" the man asks quickly.

"As far as I know, he's gone to Cologne for the day," Matt replies. Then, to me, "Captain Steele is our medical officer."

The private wrings his hand. "Sir, Davis is badly hurt. There was an accident. He needs a doctor," he gasps out.

Matt frowns. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Lucy slowly moving closer to the lorry. Bryony shifts from one foot to another.

"Shall we have a look at him?" I suggest to Matt.

He turns. For a moment, he scrutinises me. "Can you do that?" he wants to know.

I shrug. "I don't know. Can you?" I reply.

Two or three seconds pass, before Matt nods slowly. "Unlikely," he concedes. "Alright, have a look at him if you want to."

Before I have a chance to respond to that, however, I suddenly hear Lucy cry out, " _Don't!_ "

My head whips around. Lucy is standing in front of the opened tailboard of the lorry, hands on her hips, glaring at someone on the inside. "Do you want to kill him?" she demands to know.

Lucy, that has to be said, might be the quiet kind normally, but she isn't lost for words when it counts. Exchanging a quick glance with Bryony, I hurry past the private, who seems frozen in shock, and over to the lorry. Bryony is at my heels.

"Can someone please tell him to stop doing that?" Lucy demands angrily when we have reached her. Instead of asking what she's talking about, I peer into the lorry. A man lies inside, one of his comrades kneeling over him. Blood has spread beneath them both.

"I just meant to… I thought…" stammers the kneeling man, fearfully glancing down at his comrade.

"He wanted to pull out the metal piece," Lucy explains, glaring at him darkly.

I, too, have seen the jagged piece of metal sticking out of the man's thigh. It almost looks like part of a shell case and I have to concentrate to remind myself that that's not possible.

Without acknowledging their discussion, I climb into the lorry and kneel down next to the wounded man. Immediately, I feel my skirt absorb his blood.

"The piece of metal stems the blood flow. If you pull it out, his bleeding will worsen," I hear Bryony explain. The man kneeling opposite me makes a surprised sound and pulls his hands back hurriedly. I hardly take note of him though.

Without really realizing it, I have switched into crisis mode. In the half-dark of the lorry, my eyes flit around, trying to get as accurate a picture of the situation as possible. My fingers fly up to his neck, instinctively searching for a pulse.

Piece of metal high up in the thigh. Unconscious patient with irregular pulse. A puddle of blood beneath me.

Not the _Arteria iliaca communis_. He'd already be dead then. _Arteria circumflexa femoris lateralis_? Possible. _Arteria profunda femoris_? Maybe. Could be too deep though. There's no way to be sure without opening him up.

"Rilla?" Bryony's tentative voice carries over to me.

"Wounded artery," I answer, never taking my eyes off the man in front of me. The puddle of blood slowly starts to spread.

"We need to get him into a hospital," Lucy declares, her voice skipping. The kneeling man makes a whimpering sound.

I let go of a breath. "Where's the nearest medical unit stationed, Matt?" I ask.

A moment passes. "Well, there are the two Canadian CCS in Bonn and I think they opened up an English one in Cologne some days ago…" Matt answers hesitatingly.

 _Too far_.

"When do you expect your MO back?" I want to know. The pulse beneath my fingers flickers.

"In the evening?" It sounds more like a question.

 _Too late._

Raising my head, I look towards the lorry's exit. Three faces peer back at me. "Please tell me that one of you has seen an operating theatre from the inside before," I remark to my colleagues.

They exchange a look, the colour leaving their faces.

"Well, I… when I was at nursing school…" stammers Lucy. Bryony just looks at me with fearful eyes.

So, I'm on my own. I, who haven't been able to set foot into an operating theatre ever since I left Flanders.

 _God be with us._

Looking at Matt, I ask, "Do you have a surgery or treatment room or something?"

He hesitates, then nods.

"Good. We'll take him there," I announce curtly while straightening. A glance downwards tells me that the lower part of my dress is soaked in blood. It looks dark on the blue cloth.

I climb from the lorry, as Matt orders several privates to come closer with the wave of a hand. They hold a wooden board between them. An improvised stretcher, I realize. Well, it's better than nothing.

"Show me the way, please?" I ask Matt. Then, turning to Lucy and Bryony, "And you make sure that they jostle him as little as possible."

"What are you going to do?" Matt wants to know as we hurry across the factory area side by side.

Glancing at him quickly, I explain, "The artery has to be closed. Otherwise, he'll bleed dry."

Matt is silent for three or four seconds. "Wouldn't it be more sensible to dress the wound and send him to a real hospital?" he then asks, "With _real_ doctors?"

"How are we supposed to do that?" I reply. "I can't apply a pressure bandage as long as the metal is still inside his leg. Pulling it out would make the bleeding much worse. And the wound is too high for me to apply a tourniquet that won't be in danger of coming loose during the journey."

"So, he'd die?" Matt asks, voice sober.

I nod.

"Are you sure?" he continues.

And suddenly, unbidden, the memory of Not-Dead appears in front of my eyes. I've been wrong before. My instincts have deceived me at least once.

Still…

So much blood.

I look at Matt. "Yes," I answer, "Yes, I am sure." And hope that he won't hear doubt in my voice.

If he does, he doesn't show. Instead, he stops in front of a door and pushes down the handle. "This is it," he announces.

Just when I mean to step past him, he puts a hand on my arm. Abruptly, I turn.

"Do you trust yourself to do this?" he asks. His eyes search my face.

I take a deep breath. "No," I admit, "But there's no one else to do it."

For several moments, we look at each other, silent, then he suddenly nods and releases my arm. Without another word, I turn and enter the surgery of absent Captain Steele. The door falls shut behind me.

The surgery itself is clearly improvised but looks serviceable. A surgery table dominates the middle of the room. On a side table next to it is a collection of glass bottles and some shelves hold medical equipment, surgical instruments among it. When I open the door of a cupboard, I find dressing material.

"Can I do anything?" comes a timid voice from behind me. I quickly turn my head and see Bryony standing in the doorway.

"Carbolic acid," orders my mouth before my mind has had time to consider the question. "We need a solution of carbolic acid."

Bryony nods quickly. She appears grateful at being able to do something she knows _how_ to do. I turn back towards the shelves and hurriedly collect everything I might need. Scalpel. Pincette. Surgical needle. Suture. Spatula. Tourniquet.

I drop everything into the carbolic acid Bryony is preparing, before turning my attention towards the glass bottles arranged on the side table. I find the morphine quickly and just want to turn back, when my eyes land on another bottle. Ether. Uncertain, my hand hovers above it. Dare I…?

"Do you want to anaesthetise him?" asks Bryony from behind me. Her voice is trembling.

Of course, I want to. I've been through operations on awake patients before and every single one was unbearable. But I've never anaesthetised anyone on my own, nor have Bryony and Lucy. And it's so damn easy to get the dose wrong, especially when the patient is losing so much blood.

Dare I, then?

"No." I shake my head, look at Bryony. "We have to make it work without anaesthesia."

In the next second, the door is pushed open and Lucy enters, the soldiers holding the improvised stretcher at her heels. I point to the surgery table, which Bryony is just covering in a rubber pad. Under Lucy's strict gaze, the soldiers transfer the wounded man – Davis? – from the wooden board to the surgery table. He groans softly, but without regaining consciousness.

Good. I prefer him unconscious.

"You can leave now," Lucy orders the soldiers, but I quickly take step forward.

"Your belts. We need your belts," I explain. The men exchange nervous glances, but none dares to protest. After a beat, they take off the wide belts they wear around their tunics, and give them to Lucy, who holds out an impatient hand for them.

"We have to stabilise him," I declare as the soldiers have left the room. Taking three of the belts from Lucy, I interlink them and loop them around the man's torso and upper arms, closing them beneath the table he's lying on.

"Bind the wounded leg at the ankle," I order the other two. "And let the other leg hang down and tie it to the leg of the table so that it won't get in the way."

Silently, they both start working. When our patient is suitably stabilised, they look back up at me. Expectantly and a little fearfully. I meet their gazes thoughtfully, looking from one to the other. Finally, I settle on Lucy.

"Lucy, you'll assist with sterile tasks," I announce. "Bryony does everything that's not sterile. Alright?"

They exchange a glance. They look just about as apprehensive as I feel. But then Bryony squares her shoulders and Lucy tilts her chin forward and I know I can rely on them.

While I prepare the morphine injection – just as much as I dare –, Bryony cuts open the patient's trouser leg, exposing the underlying wound. Lucy fixes the tourniquets, one as high on the thigh as possible, the other a little below the wound, and does so with more strength than I thought she possessed.

I apply the morphine, then take another moment to check his pulse. I like it even less than before. They man is still unconscious, but I'm fairly certain that he won't remain so. An operation without anaesthesia is enough to bring anyone to consciousness.

With practiced movements, Lucy and I sterilize our hands and arms. They help a little, these routine actions. For while I still manage to appear outwardly calm, I can feel my heart racing. So many times have I assisted during operations, so many times have I watched torn arteries being sewed back together. My mind knows what it has to do. In front of my inner eye, I can see other hands perform the operation I am about to undertake.

Start on the inside, so that the intima, the innermost layer, doesn't detach and clog down the artery. Suture it continuously, with vertical stiches. Hold the suture taunt, but don't let it rip. Only fasten the knots after the tourniquets have been removed.

The theory is plain. And yet, never once would I have dreamed of one day having to do this myself.

I watch Lucy disinfect the area around the wound with iodine. Her hands are trembling and her gaze is just slightly off to the side. I can understand why. The wound looks nasty. The piece of metal jutting out of the flesh, surrounded by a jagged cut. On the patient's skin, blood mixes with iodine.

Just when I want to take my place, I hear footsteps coming closer on the outside. I listen more closely. And yes – there's that little irregularity that I'd recognize anywhere.

A firm knock, before the door opens and Ken enters. Vaguely, I am aware of Matt following him, closing the door behind himself, but my eyes immediately find Ken's.

I don't know what a sight I make, but he is completely calm, and I absorb that calmness. My heart is still beating too fast and I still want nothing more than to leave this room right this instant, but at least I manage to calm my breathing a little.

"What can we do?" asks Ken.

Surprised, I blink at him.

"You're the expert," he adds gently. "You decide. If there's anything we can do to help, you just have to say so."

Yes. Right.

I take a deep breath. "You – you could hold him down by the shoulders. I don't know if the belts will hold. And Matt, if you could try and keep the leg steady?" I ask and am surprised at how composed my voice sounds.

Without any more words, they both take their places. I step up to the table as well. For a moment, I look down at the wound. My hands ball into fists, then open slowly.

I raise my head and look at Bryony. "You can pull it out now," I order her.

A trembling nod, but she bends forward, carefully takes the metal with both hands and pulls. I am prepared for a gush of blood, but it doesn't come. There is fresh blood, but not as much as I had feared. Good. So, the tourniquets held. If they hadn't, we wouldn't have stood a chance.

"Scalpel," I ask Lucy. Seconds later, the cold metal is pressed into my waiting hand. It feels both familiar and like never before.

For a moment, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

 _Oh God_. Please let this go well.

Then I open my eyes and apply the scalpel.

And somehow, I manage. I can't say how. But somehow, I manage. Even though my hands are slippery with his blood and the artery narrow, far too _narrow_ for the stitches I put into it, even though Bryony reports a worrying loss of blood pressure more than once, and even though the patient becomes conscious half-way through and starts fighting against the belts and the two men holding him down; somehow, we manage.

I don't know how. I suppose I never will. But we manage.

And so, after what feels like an eternity, I find myself in Ken's room, clad in just my underthings while my blood-soaked dress is thrown over the back of a chair. I sit on his bed, a blanket around my shoulders, trying to suppress the shiver that is making my body tremble, without much success.

A short knock on the door makes me start. Moments later, Ken enters the room. As he closes the door, he explains, "Here, Matt himself went to the factory director's mansion and helped himself to some of his wife and daughters' dresses. Lucy and Bryony already chose something for themselves, but I thought this –" He interrupts himself when he looks at me.

For a moment, neither of us moves, just my teeth continue chattering. Then a jolt goes through Ken and he crosses the room in long strides before kneeling down next to me.

"You're shaking," he murmurs. His arms enfold me, and his eyes look concerned.

I'd dispute it, but really, there's no use denying it and, truth to be told, I don't want to. Instead, I let my head sink forward, against his shoulder and breathe in his scent. Of its own accord, my hand wanders upwards and comes to rest on his chest, so that I can feel his heart beat beneath my fingertips. Steady and calming.

He doesn't say anything, just holds me for many long minutes, until the trembling lessens and finally, ceases. Only then do I raise my head. Ken's arms release me, but he stays kneeling in front of me.

"Better?" he asks quietly.

I nod. "Yes. Thank you," I reply, slowly letting go of a breath.

Ken's eyes wander over my face searchingly, but what he sees there seems to reassure him, for he nods. "Captain Steele sends his regards," he remarks. "He says you did an excellent job. He's just accompanying Davis to one of the CCS, otherwise he would have told you himself."

Abruptly, I sit up. "So, he's alright? The patient?" I ask. My voice is part hope, part desperation. Because I know far too well that an operation can only ever be the first step.

"He's alright," confirms Ken with a smile. "Thanks to you."

I shake my head. "We did it together, all five of us," I protest.

Ken shrugs. "That may be true. But without you, he'd be dead now," he replies and sounds so certain that I want to believe him.

So, I don't argue any further, just raise a hand to push back a strand of hair that has fallen into his eyes. Ken catches the hand when I lower it again and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist before taking my hand between both of his and turning it around several times. When I try to pull it back, he holds on, gently but firmly.

There was a time when I had pretty hands. Pale and soft and slender. That was years ago. More than five years of daily contact with carbolic acid has turned my skin cracked and abrasive. I have callouses on the balls of my hand and scars on the back of it. My nails are cut short so resolutely that they sink into the nailbeds. Where I wasn't able to scrub of the blood, there are red shadows on my skin. Under my left thumb nail there is a rusty red rim of dried blood.

"Let go!" I demand.

Ken raises his eyes to mine. "Why?" he wants to know.

I turn my head away, pressing my lips together. Somehow, this suddenly makes me feel uncomfortable. "Because my hands are ugly," I murmur so softly as to make it almost inaudible.

For a long moment, Ken remains silent, but his hands close around mine. "Because it's evident that you work with them?" he finally asks.

I nod, still without looking at him.

One of his hands lets go of one of mine, instead touching my cheek and turning my face back towards him. "I know you won't believe me when I say you're wrong," he says. "But how about this? You just saved a life with those hands. What could ever be ugly about that?"

Hm.

Warily, I yes him. His expression, however, remains open and honest and steady. Not a hint of doubt.

"You're good at this," I finally concede, if a little grudgingly.

Ken laughs. "At complimenting you? Nothing difficult about that," he declares.

When I reach out to smack his shoulder, he just laughs louder and catches back my hand again. Putting the palms of both my hands together, he encloses my wrists with one hand. His thumb almost reaches around to touch his forefinger.

The laugh subsides. The exuberant mood is gone as quickly as it came.

Silence settles over the room.

"How thin you are," Ken finally murmurs. "So fragile and yet, not fragile at all." His eyes are fixed firmly on my wrists. There is a deep frown between his eyebrows.

I don't have the heart to tell him that I was much thinner just weeks ago. Not much more than skin stretched over bones.

"I was very sick," I reply quietly instead.

Ken nods. His hand releases mine abruptly. Only then does he look me in the yes. "But now you're well again?" And it would be a statement but for his voice rising just the slightest bit at the end of the sentence.

And once more, I don't have the heart to tell him that my body isn't nearly as strong as I'd like it to be. That every evening, I collapse into my bed, absolutely exhausted. That I regularly have to ask for help when my arms tremble under too heavy a load. That my head spins far too often still when I get up too quickly. That I get out of breath by simply walking up a staircase.

"Now I'm well again," I promise instead. And to stop him from asking any more questions, I lean forward and kiss him softly.

When I straighten after a few seconds, he does look calmer. "Come on, let's go back. It's New Year's Eve, after all," I remind him.

A beat, before he nods. "You're right. 1919 awaits."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Goodbye Dolly Grad' from the 19_ _th_ _century (lyrics from Will D. Cobb, music by Paul Barnes)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
I've always had a soft spot for Moustache and Friends, so I wanted to show that I got one of them through alive and unscathed at least. And you're right about Rilla potentially making a good matron! Her marriage is working against her here though, because married nurses were not the norm then - which is something she's going to have to tackle soon! I'm certainly_ _glad you like my choices of gift and you make a good observation about those mayflowers in relation to the presents. In both instances, you have someone stepping up for someone they care about. As for the Battle of Mons, it's still seen as pretty controversial and to be honest, I'm with Fractured Arm on that one - though of course it's easy to judge when you live in peaceful times a hundred years later...  
There's nothing wrong with having a profile pages and no story on it yet, but of course that's entirely up to you and guest reviews work perfectly well, too :). And if you're ready to start writing one day, please know you've come to the right place. We're a very nice and encouraging bunch on the whole. Slightly crazy sometimes, but of the harmless kind ;)._


	70. Music still to play and sing

_December 31_ _st_ _, 1918  
Lind near Cologne, Germany_

 **Music still to play and sing**

My dress is green. Of course, it's green. Just a few shades lighter than the one I wore to our wedding, but so much more glamorous. It's the very kind of dress I dreamt of as a girl, but when Ken first presented it to me tonight, my first impulse was to laugh.

Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful dress. Very elegant, with lace and embroidery and so many tiny buttons down the back that it took Ken five minutes to close them all. Still, as beautiful as the dress is, it still felt absolutely absurd to wear an evening dress after more than two years spent almost exclusively in uniform. More than that, it's really the first proper evening dress I've had in my life. Here of all places. _Now_ of all times.

But at least I wasn't the only one they wrangled out of her uniform. Bryony floats past me in a rose-coloured cloud, and even Lucy agreed to put on a navy-blue dress after Matt assured her no less than three times that he'd get all the dresses back to their rightful owners as soon as humanly possible.

The battalion soldiers are celebrating in their quarters with their respective companies, or so I've been told, but for the officers a rich dinner has been set out in the mess. While we eat, the band is playing, which no one but Lucy and I seems to think strange, and as soon as the dessert plates have been cleared away, Bryony grabs a surprised-looking lieutenant and obliges him to dance with her.

Which is why I now find myself dancing on the arm of Matt Irving in a German munitions factory, clad in my very first evening dress, just hours after having performed my first – and hopefully last – solo operation.

Let no one say that life doesn't offer surprises when you least expect them.

"What are you laughing about?" asks Matt while leading me through a sequence of steps and movements that connect to a particular dance figure so complicated that there's neither any hope of me identifying it, nor will I even attempt to understand it.

"Not much," I shrug. "I just thought about how I operated on a man just hours ago and now I'm here, merrily dancing the night away."

Matt nods while moving me into another spirited turn. When we're back to facing each other, his expression is thoughtful. "I wanted to apologise for doubting you earlier. I was wrong. That was impressive work," he remarks.

Quickly shaking my head, I ward off his apology. "You didn't doubt me any more than I did myself. That could easily have gone wrong and more than once, I thought it would."

"Then let's all be thankful that it didn't," retorts Matt and flashes me a grin before turning me into complex set of steps and turns. This one forces me to take so much care not to fall over my own feet that I am robbed of a chance to reply.

My dancing partner, however, doesn't seem to struggle at all, for he continues blithely, "In any case, it made me realise that it's quite useful to have a nurse nearby. I suppose Ford did have the right idea in that respect. Who knows, maybe I'll find myself a pretty nurse of my own?"

I stop abruptly, the dance momentarily forgotten, and eye him warily. " _Matt_! Hands off Lucy and Bryony!" I warn him.

But he just laughs easily and nudges me into yet another turn. "No worries," he assures, "Miss Turpin is even less interested in marriage than I am and where Miss Ralston is concerned… well, how could I possibly do that to poor Radley?"

Wait. What?

For the second time, I come to a halt without prior warning. "Lucy and Radley?" I ask, incredulous, and find myself looking for them over Matt's shoulder. It takes a moment for me to find them in the general bustle of the room. Lucy is not far away, dancing with a bearded captain. Radley is at the edge of the dance floor, casting continuous shy glances into her direction.

Lucy and Radley. Who would have thought?

"It's actually quite hard to miss," Matt just informs me with relish while getting both of us moving again. "I'm sure you would have noticed as well, if you looked at anyone but the CO for a change."

"I'm not looking at him now, am I?" I shoot back pointedly.

"And yet, you know exactly where he is in this room, right?" retorts Matt, who never does seem lost for an answer.

I do, in fact, know that Ken is standing a little to my left next to a window, talking to a man who I _think_ is Captain Howard. Of course, I'd never admit that to Matt.

"Not that he is any better, actually," he continues meanwhile. "Which is the real reason for why no one dares more than one dance with you, by the way."

I frown. I did notice that, while I don't want for partners, no one has yet claimed my hand for more than one single dance. I'm just not sure how Ken factors into this.

Matt seems to notice my confusion, for while he whirls us into another turn, he explains, "He never really takes his eyes off you. Regardless of what he's doing, out of the corner of his eye, he is always watching you. And you might be the only person in this room not unnerved by his attention, but that doesn't mean the rest of us aren't keen to escape it as soon as possible."

"Why unnerved?" I ask, feeling bemused.

"Hm, how do I explain?" Matt murmurs thoughtfully. "Here, let's try this: You have to understand that his power over us is absolute. In all these months, he could have sent any of us into No Man's Land on a suicide mission – and thus, into our certain demise. And there's nothing anyone could have done about that."

"He wouldn't have –" I start to protest, but Matt doesn't let me finish.

"And you would know that – how?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I close my mouth with a clank. Matt nods.

"You're right. He wouldn't have, and he didn't. But he _could_ have. And that's why we all breathe a little easier when he's looking at someone else."

"But you're his second-in-command," I argue, "And his friend."

"Which is why I'm already dancing my second dance with you," replies Matt with a grin and spins me into an especially elaborate twist. "But how could you think less of a green-eared little lieutenant for being pretty nervous when he suddenly finds himself dancing with the wife of the CO? Even more so, when said wife is no ugly old shrew."

Now I do laugh. "Thanks… I guess," I reply and Matt hints at a bow.

For several moments, we dance in silence, before Matt adds, "He's good. As a CO. He's really very good."

"How does one recognise a good CO?" I ask curiously.

"Truthfully? By how the normal soldiers react to him," Matt answers. "And with Ken… they respect him. They don't love him, not in the way you see it sometimes with other officers, especially those promoted from the ranks. He's too different from them and he always keeps a certain distance. He's not the type to know all their kids' names and ask about their mother's rheumatism."

"Not like you," I realize and can't help a smile.

He acknowledges the point with a nod. "Not like me. Indeed. But instead, he's so much better at keeping them alive. It was always his main objective to get as many men as possible through any offensive and they know it. That's why they trust him. When he was wounded last year, some men from his old company went out and carried him back. I know many an officer who would have been left out there to die."

Instinctively, I pull up my shoulders a little. If they _hadn't_ carried him back…

"And he never hid behind his rank," Matt adds. "When the soldiers had to leave the trench, he was with them. It always fascinated me a bit how calm he was, too. It didn't matter what we were facing, he never seemed to be afraid. He _says_ he was scared, but you wouldn't have known it from looking at him."

I know that mask Ken can pull up when he doesn't want anyone to see what he is feeling, and while I have learned to see behind it at times, I have no trouble imagining that it allowed him to hide his fear from his men very effectively.

Matt, however, is now watching me very thoughtfully. Sometime in the last minute or two the music changed and we're now moving more slowly.

"If I think about it, I've never seen him truly terrified until you fell ill. He climbed out of every trench if he had to, but your illness was hard on him," Matt points out. He looks more serious than I have seen him so far.

"Really?" I ask quietly. I am a little unsure about whether I really want to hear what he has to say. And yes, it does feel disloyal to talk about Ken when he's not present, to hear it, but on the other hand… maybe this is something I need to hear?

With a quick glance, Matt makes sure that Ken is still standing by the window. I could have told him that as well.

"He was in a pretty bad shape," Matt continues, not without a slight hesitation. "Even before, when your brother died, and he couldn't get to you. My condolences, by the way. For your loss, I mean."

I incline my head slightly but manage to stay composed. I am getting better at this.

"Yes, well, and then that wire arrived. It was in the evening and we were sitting together in that castle they stuck us in. I still remember how he opened that telegram and suddenly went completely still. He sent all of us away and …" abruptly, he interrupts himself.

But I'm not that clueless. "Whiskey," I voice what Matt is too loyal to say.

He nods, appearing a little relieved. "During the day, you didn't necessarily notice it. He still did his job, though with little… verve. But every night, he waited for the next telegram and you could see how he both yearned for it and feared it. And when it came, he never said a word, but simply sent us away. I only found out what the matter was when I started reading those telegrams."

"And he let you?" I ask, surprised.

Matt shrugs. "I think it didn't matter to him anymore. Very many things didn't matter to him anymore. Even when news about the armistice reached us, he told us about it so indifferently that you would have been forgiven for believing it was the daily weather report and not news about the end of the war," he explains.

Somewhere in my chest, I feel a sharp tinge at the thought of his pain.

"One evening, I went to him," Matt continues. "He sat there in the pitch-dark, next to the window, whiskey glass in hand, and didn't move. I figured it was time someone talked to him – and who else but I would do it? So, I stood in front of him and told him that it had to stop. The sleepless nights, the worry, the drinking. Don't get me wrong, we all drink. It made this entire mess a little more bearable. But with him… it had become too much."

What did Ken say, all those months ago in Aubigny? We all deal in our own way. Or we don't.

"I told him that none of it was helping. That was when he looked at me and said that him stopping wasn't going to help you either." Matt's lips twist into a cheerless grin. "And what could I have possibly said to _that_?"

Nothing, I suppose.

"What happened then?" I ask cautiously.

"The next day's telegram was late. When it arrived, he had already retired for the night, so I went in to bring it to him. He read it and –" here, Matt hesitates for a moment, "well, it was the only time I ever saw him cry. In that first second, I thought you were dead."

It feels strange. To hear someone talk about my own death like that.

"He didn't touch any whiskey today," I point out instead, "Nor last week." For of course I noticed.

"Not since that evening. No whiskey and nothing else. Not even when his mother was ill, though I could see how hard that was on him," Matt replies calmly.

Oh? And they call me superstitious!

For several seconds, I consider Matt pensively. "I'm glad you were with him," I finally say and mean every word.

"And I'm glad you're not dead," he retorts immediately. And then he grins, and I have to laugh and the solemn moment is past.

In that very moment, the rhythm of the music changes once more and Matt whirls us around with such energy that I have trouble keeping up with him. We don't have any opportunity for any more talk. Instead, I am so dizzy after a mere minute or two that an especially sweeping turn makes me lose both my footing and my hold on Matt's hand.

I am caught by a pair of very familiar arms.

"At risk of sounding like a jealous husband…" Ken remarks while his arms pull me closer, "Need I be worried?"

I crane my neck to look at him. There's an amused glint in his eyes and his lips twitch slightly. He's not really worried.

"Oh, you know the rule. Nothing's official until the third consecutive dance," I therefore reply airily.

"That was your fourth," Ken points out drily.

"Really?" I ask, genuinely surprised, just as Matt behind me scoffs, "You _counted_?"

Ken kisses the tip of my nose. "Really," he answers my question, while summarily ignoring that of Matt.

"Oh, well, if that's the case…" I reply, raising my shoulders with a would-be apologetic smile.

Ken grins. "May I still ask for the next dance, Mrs Ford?" he asks.

"You know you don't have to ask," I answer with a smile.

"But he should be asking me!" Matt protests in badly-pretended indignation. "It's my dancing partner he's attempting to steal!"

"And I couldn't care less whether you mind or not," Ken informs him calmly, never taking his eyes off me.

I, on the other hand, cast a quick look over my shoulder at Matt. "And besides, he can hardly steal what's already his, can he?" I ask sweetly.

In reply, Matt just rolls his eyes, muttering something about too much sweet talk, and decides on an obviously strategic retreat. As he leaves, I turn back to Ken who is laughing softly. The music is slower now and he keeps me close.

"I hope he behaved himself?" he asks, nodding in the direction into which Matt disappeared.

"Don't worry," I assure. "I like him."

"And he likes you," Ken replies. "I can tell."

I have to say that I am glad to hear that. He's not Henry or Walter, but he's still a friend of Ken's and I want to get along well with his friends.

"Matt's from Toronto as well, isn't he?" I enquire.

Ken nods. "Yes. We knew each other before coming over."

Making a thoughtful sound, I muse, "So we'll probably see him quite regularly when we're back."

For a moment, I think I see surprise flash in Ken's eyes, but the moment is gone as quickly as it came. Only his arms pull me a little closer still while we still turn slowly.

"Speaking about Toronto – did I tell you that Nan and Connie are there?" I decide to change the subject. "They are living with Di and Milly. I think it's good for Nan. At the same time, I keep asking myself if that means Nan knows about the two of them now."

"Seeing as the flat only has two bedrooms, I can't see how she could _not_ know," Ken answers matter-of-factly.

I frown. "How come you know about the number of bedrooms in Di's flat?" I want to know.

Ken chuckles at my confusion. "Because it's my flat, actually. When I heard about Di's plans to move to Toronto, I offered it to her. It wasn't as if I was going to use it any time soon, after all."

Which makes sense and everything, only… "I didn't know you had your own flat in Toronto," I admit, still frowning.

"Did you think I still lived with my parents?" asks Ken, obviously himself surprised at that thought.

I shrug. I reckon I didn't think anything at all.

"What did you parents say, by the way? About us, I mean," I instead reach for that other trail of thought presenting itself.

Now Ken's the one shrugging. "What were they supposed to say? They were surprised. They are happy for us. They are looking forward to getting to know you better. Mum is interested in all kinds of details, which she will surely drag out of you once she gets the chance," he answers. "Why? What did you parents say?"

"Pretty much the same, now that I think about it," I reply thoughtfully.

"And what else could they say? No use shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted, right?" Ken raises both eyebrows so high that they almost touch his hairline, making me smile at the somewhat comical sight.

But I don't manage to hold the smile for very long and it doesn't escape him. "Hey, what's the matter?" he asks encouragingly while giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

I turn my head away. "Oh, nothing, really. It's just…" I begin slowly. "It's, well… do you think they are really happy? I mean, the thought they were getting Selina for a daughter-in-law and now –" I break off.

Ken brings us to a halt, then raising a hand to carefully tilt my face up, his eyes searching mine. They are earnest, but gentle. "Now they are getting you," he finishes. "And you can trust me when I say that they'll love you. And that's not because you're your parents' daughter and not even because you make me happy, but because you're you and it's pretty easy to love you."

It sounds very easy indeed, the way he says it.

"Alright?" he asks when I don't react.

After a moment of hesitation, I nod slightly. I suppose there's nothing to be done but to trust him on this.

"Good," Ken replies with a kiss to my forehead. "And now, let's go outside. I need fresh air."

Outside, it's actually quiet for a change. The soldiers are all occupied with their own celebrations, so that the factory area seems quite deserted. It looks unfamiliar, so quiet and empty, just lit up by the light of the moon. Makes it appear almost harmless.

Huddling deeper into my coat, I feel Ken come to stand behind me, and lean against him slightly. His arms wrap around me and he folds my hand into his own. His thumb brushed over my Claddah ring, which, just for this evening, is back on my finger where it belongs. Around my neck, I wear my new necklace instead, golden with a pendant of tiny garnets.

I wonder why garnet sounds so similar to grenade?

But I don't say that. Of course, I don't. Instead, I curl deeper into Ken's embrace, tilting my head back slightly, resting it against his shoulder, and looking up into the night sky.

I must remember to thank Matron Burke for allowing us to stay the entire evening. It was our half day off, but under normal circumstances, we'd never have been allowed to stay away until after midnight, and I would have regretted not being able to greet the New Year with Ken. It feels meaningful, for us to be together right now.

"Say," he takes that moment to ask slowly, "Did I understand you correctly? Do you really picture us living in Toronto?"

"Don't you?" I ask back, surprised, and turn a little in his embrace so that I can look at him.

A furrow has appeared between his eyebrows. Gently, I touch it with the tip of one finger and his forehead becomes smooth again. "Toronto is your home," I remind him.

"But not yours," he replies. The furrow is back.

I raise my shoulders a little. "I haven't had a home in a while. Not a place, at any rate. Home is where you are," I explain simply.

That does elicit a small smile from him. "What about Glen?" he asks nevertheless.

I sigh softly. "Glen is… Glen is lost to me. It was a Garden of Eden and I turned my back to it, so I was cast out. I know I'd never be let inside anymore, regardless of what I do. I shudder at the prospect of Rainbow Valley one day being nothing but a grassy hollow and Ingleside nothing but an old, draughty house, but that would happen inevitably, were I to go back. So, I think… let it remain the paradise of my childhood, securely locked away in my memories. There, reality won't hurt it."

Ken nods thoughtfully. "Does that make you sad?" he asks carefully.

"It did, for a long time," I answer. "But by now… see, I lost Glen when I grew up. And as much as I love it and as hard as these past few years were, I know wouldn't want to go back to being the girl I once was."

"I wouldn't want that either," Ken says with great conviction, making me laugh despite myself. He smiles, and his eyes are dark and tender.

"So, Toronto?" he asks.

I nod. "Toronto."

He seals the decision with a kiss.

After having leaned back again, he shakes his head slightly in disbelief. "Somehow, I can't help thinking that we're doing everything in the wrong order. We should have talked about that months ago," he remarks.

I, however, just laugh, unconcerned. "And risk jinxing it? I wouldn't have _let_ you!"

"We don't happen to be a little bit superstitious, do we?" Ken teases, raising an eyebrow.

"So, what?" I retort, meaning it as a challenge but not quite able to suppress the smile threatening to steal onto my lips.

Ken laughs. "Nothing. You are, as always, absolutely right, my little heathen," he replies. And then he bends down and gives me a kiss that _is_ a kiss.

We stay that way, lost in one another and in the knowledge that we are finally together and alive and happy and that the future, for the first time in years, tastes of sweetness and hope.

And so, it is only the peal of distant bells that finally announces to us the arrival of the New Year. From inside, the muffled sound of many-voiced singing is carried over to us.

 _For auld lang syne, my dear,  
for auld lang syne,  
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,  
for auld lang syne._

"To old times?" Ken asks, looking down at me intently.

I, however, lightly shake my head. "No," I correct, "To the times that are coming."

Then I get up on my tiptoes and kiss him and it feels like a promise.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Greensleeves' from the 16th century, first published in 1580 (source unknown)._

 _The song 'Auld land syne' is from 1788 (lyrics taken from a poem by Robert Burns (itself probably inspired by an earlier song by James Watson), music as per a Scottish folk song (possibly 'The Miller's wedding'))._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Good question there. What _would _Anne think, if she could see Rilla now? I think she'd be worried a bit, about Rilla taking on too much, but I also see her a being proud. She's always been supportive of her children and their dreams and plans, after all, and this is Rilla being very good at what she's chosen to do.  
I'm glad you like the dynamic between Rilla and Lucy and Bryony, because those three are quite enjoyable to write. Rilla takes on the leading role on their trio, but without the other two there to support her and doing a great job in assisting her during the operation, she wouldn't have been able to pull it off. So, this was very much a team effort.  
And you're certainly right about both Rilla and Ken still having to learn about each other and having to adjust. Ken seeing how capable she is in the medical field was important, as was Rilla seeing that he's supporting her and willing to put his trust in her. They still need to find their 'normal' but this experience brought them several steps closer, so that they can slowly start turning towards the future together - "one shattered thermometer at a time", indeed ;).  
_


	71. Made in Germany

_January 7_ _th_ _, 1919  
Cologne, Germany_

 **Made in Germany**

I tilt my head back, let my gaze wanders upwards. And up there, high above us, the cathedral's spires seem to tickle the low-hanging clouds.

Through the years I've seen many an ecclesial building, many of them pretty, some old, several big, but when it comes to height alone, only the cathedral in Rouen could possibly hope to match the one in Cologne. And even Rouen Cathedral, with its asymmetrical, open work façade is not nearly as… imposing as this one. Stifling, almost.

Behind me, I hear a low whistle. "Say what you will, but the Germans can build churches alright," Matt remarks.

"Trenches, too," mutters a captain, who I think is called Osmond.

I turn around and just catch Ken giving him a pointed look, causing the captain to shut his mouth abruptly. But then, I suppose trenches aren't exactly an adequate topic of conversation for our little excursion.

"How old is the church?" asks Bryony, tilting her head to the side and considering the building in front of us.

"No idea," Matt answers, unconcerned. "Looks old."

Next to him, Radley clears his throat clumsily. "Building work started in the middle of the 13th century. During the next 300 years, the choir and the lower half of the south tower were finished. Work was suspended then, and the cathedral remained in its unfinished state for another 300 years, before building was restarted in the middle of the last century. As you see it now, the cathedral has existed for barely 40 years," he explains.

"Oh?" Bryony shoots me a look over her shoulder, raising both eyebrows. It's evident that she never wanted to have her question answered in such detail.

Radley, however, just seems to have started. "The cathedral was built to house the reliquary of the Three Kings, which was brought here from Milan in the 12th century," he continues.

"Reliquary?" Bryony repeats, her forehead setting into a frown.

"Bones," Ken explains drily.

"The reliquary in question does indeed consist of bones, but a reliquary can also be hair, fingernails or blood of a saint," clarifies Radley.

" _Fingernails_?" screeches Bryony and stares at Radley, clearly aghast.

He takes an uncertain step away from her. "Well, um, not only fingernails," he stutters. "It could also be objects the saint has touched, especially clothing and instruments of torture."

Now I am the one raising a questioning eyebrow. "What instruments of torture?"

Radley shyly glances my way. "Those the saint was killed with," he explains.

Oh. Right. Of course.

"But who would exhibit remains of the dead in churches?" asks Bryony, wrinkling her nose.

"Catholics, my dear Miss Turpin. Catholics," Matt answers with a grin. "Want to have a look at them?" He offers her an arm, which Bryony takes after the shortest of hesitations.

A young lieutenant – Barnsley? – holds open the heavy door for us and, one after the other, we enter the cathedral. The inside fulfils the façade's promise. The nave stretches out in front of us, pillars and arches rise upwards, light falls in through many-coloured windows.

I take a couple of steps, hearing the door fall shut behind me, and pause, my gaze travelling up to the far away ceiling. "Are you alright?" Ken asks quietly, bending closer to me.

Slowly, I turn my head to look at him. "I'm good," I assure and try for a smile. "It's just…" Helpless, I raise my shoulders.

Ken nods. "It reminds me of him as well," he answers.

I sigh softly. I promised Walter I would think of him when I see something beautiful and while I am still not convinced that this cathedral, in all its imposingness, is truly _beautiful_ , it is still a Catholic church and the memory comes all on its own.

"Do you think he would have liked this?" Ken asks what I am thinking, letting his own gaze travel upwards to the arched ceiling.

"Not all of this," I answer pensively. "It's too… mighty. But maybe the little things. The figure over there or the window on the other side. He always found beauty in the little things."

"That he did," Ken agrees thoughtfully.

And just in that moment, a lone ray of sunlight falls on one of the coloured windowpanes, painting a kaleidoscope of colours onto the stone floor. For several long seconds, I look down at the play of colours and light, then raise my eyes to Ken's. I know he's thinking the same thought I do. It's sights like this for which Walter wanted to be remembered.

Then the ray of light disappears and leaves behind just a grey slab of stone.

"Come on," Ken prompts quietly, holding out a hand for me to take.

Our fingers interlace, as we stroll through the cathedral together. We pass by Bryony, now being escorted by Captain Steele instead of Matt, and finally reach the apse, where Radley stands next to Lucy, obviously explaining something to her.

As we walk past them, I catch a snippet of their conversation. "…might be Catholic, but it does not belong to the Catholic Church. Listed as owner is the _Domkirche zu Köln_ , meaning that the cathedral belongs to itself. That's because…"

"Do you think that's true?" I ask Ken when we have left them behind.

He shrugs. "If Radley says so, I'm not betting against it. We have yet to find something Radley doesn't know. Matt swears his parents fed him encyclopaedias when he was a child. Otherwise, the sheer vastness of his knowledge is hard to explain," he replies. "Though I could imagine he probably prepared especially well for this particular excursion to impress Miss Ralston." In the church's half-dark, his eyes glint amusedly.

I cast a thoughtful glance over my shoulder. Radley seems more relaxed than I have ever seen him and Lucy listens to him with obvious interest.

"Is this a good idea?" I ask Ken. For the role of chaperone might not be my favourite one, but Matron entrusted the care of Bryony and Lucy to me. If she didn't trust me, we'd hardly be spending yet another afternoon in the company of the same group of officers.

"Who wants to be the judge of that?" Ken answers, shrugging. "I can tell you that Radley is the most honest chap I have ever met. He doesn't have long left until graduation – he's majoring in history, I think – so he should be earning sometime in the foreseeable future. So long as Miss Ralston doesn't mind his impromptu lessons, I don't see a reason against it."

Turning my head, I move my gaze from Lucy and Radley to Ken instead. "So, you don't think I ought to put a stop to this somehow?" I want to know.

"Could you?" he retorts.

Thoughtfully, I incline my head to the side. "Not in the long run. But Matron only allowed Bryony and Lucy to come with me because I promised to look after them. I could have simply refused to take them along next time," I explain. "But if you say he's a good man, I won't interfere."

Something flickers over Ken's face at my words.

"About that…" he begins slowly. "I don't think there will be a next time, at least not here. We received orders to move within the next few days. Back to Belgium."

I take a deep breath, suppressing the urge to hold on to him, and instead clutch his hand a little tighter. He returns the squeeze immediately. "When?" I ask and surprise myself by how calm my voice sounds.

"Friday, if everything goes according to plan," he replies calmly.

Today is Tuesday.

Once more, I take a breath, then nod slowly. "I'm sick of saying goodbye," I inform him. My laugh remains an unfulfilled attempt.

Ken sighs. "I know. So am I. But try to see it like this: Belgium is the first step to England and from England, Canada isn't so very far. We're going home." He raises his free hand and touches my face, trying to comfort me.

Trembling, I let go of the breath again.

Home. And then, no more goodbyes.

I want to say something to make him look less concerned, but I don't get the chance, for Matt choses that very moment to stride over to us. "Hey, you two," he calls out, sotto voce, but still too loud for a church, "Are you coming? We want to go up the tower."

Ken quickly looks at Matt, then back to me, his expression changing from annoyance to tenderness in the fraction of a second. "Shall we?" he asks.

I nod. This time, my smile is at least partly successful.

The way up the tower, however, reveals itself to be a very narrow spiral staircase, completely enclosed by walls of heavy stones. One glance at it makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand up in warning. When I step closer, casting a careful look around the first turn, I feel my heartbeat picking up speed. The staircase is hardly wide enough for two people to pass each other comfortably. And when I think about how high that tower is… that's a long way up, caught between thick stone walls.

Fact is: It might not be an underground tunnel, but it's _very_ narrow and _very_ long.

Abruptly, I take a step back. "On second thoughts, if I think about it… maybe I'll stay down here after all," I announce, trying for an unconcerned tone.

Immediately, I feel half a dozen pairs of eyes on me. "Is something wrong?" Ken asks, just as Captain Steele enquires, "Are you feeling unwell, Ma'am? Can I assist you?"

With a firm shake of my head, I assure them, "No, it's fine. _I_ am fine. Still, thank you for asking. It's just that I'd rather stay down here and wait for you."

Ken opens his mouth, without a doubt meaning to send the others up without the two of us, but Bryony beats him to it, "Great. I'll wait with you." Her cheerful demeanour makes it immediately obvious that it wasn't her idea to climb the tower in the first place.

And so, while it still takes some minutes for me to assure Ken and Captain Steele that I am _really_ well and for Bryony to convince Lucy that, considering the present circumstances, it's quite alright for her to absent herself from our presence for a couple of minutes, the others finally start their climb up the tower and Bryony and I make our way outside.

The wintry air is cold, but it feels heavenly.

" _Whew_ , you don't know how glad I am that I don't need to go up there!" Bryony announces with evident relief. "I mean, the view might be good, but after all those steps, you're sure to be all sweaty, not to start with what it does to your hair. And I surely won't go to the opera tonight with my hair all tousled!"

That's one way of seeing it.

"And you wouldn't have made it up anyway, so –," Bryony adds, but doesn't get any further before I interrupt her.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask with a frown.

Bryony rolls her eyes expressively. "Exactly what I said," she informs me, sounding a little too pleased. "You're quite good at hiding it, but I realised a while ago that you're not nearly as recovered from your illness as you pretend to be. Sometimes, I think you remain upright only through sheer stubbornness. Which is something your Kenneth hasn't cottoned on to yet only because you're almost floating whenever he's around. But I see you every day and I know exactly that you would never have made it up those five hundred-odd steps!"

I'd like to argue – _how_ I'd like to argue! – but truth to be told, she is right. I probably really wouldn't have made it all the way up the tower, even if the staircase had been less narrow and less oppressing.

For a second or two, Bryony eyes me searchingly, then nods, evidently satisfied. "See? I am right. And now you'll sit down over here and I'm going to have a look at that shop over there and see whether I can't convince them to sell us something to drink," she declares, pointing first at a low wall, then at a shop in a side street several steps away.

Since resistance looks futile, I start to set off towards the wall, when Bryony quickly stops me. "Do you understand the money?" she asks, presenting me with a fistful of crumpled-up notes. German money.

"Sorry. No idea," I apologise. I haven't have many opportunities to handle German money.

Bryony looks down at the bundle of notes for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders. "Ah, well, it can't be that hard," she decides with a typical lack of concern and gives me a wide smile, before turning and striding towards the shop.

I look after her, shaking my head slightly, but can't hide a smile. Then I stroll over to the wall she ordered me towards and sit down. The stone feels cool, but my coat is heavy, so it'll be fine for a little while.

As I sit there and wait, I take in my surroundings. In the cathedral's shadow, the surrounding buildings seem almost tiny, but turning my back to the cathedral, I realise that the houses are actually quite imposing on their own, with five or six storeys and elaborately carved frontages. In front of them, there is a hustle and bustle. Horse-drawn carriages cross the path of a lone automobile, a little further away a tram rolls past, and in-between, people walk by.

They look so _normal_.

As they walk past me, some briskly, some more leisurely, they look like they could easily fit in in London or Paris or even Montreal. There's nothing in their clothes or their look or their bearing that easily identifies them as Germans. Sure, there's the language, but even that is related to ours, as Walter once explained to me.

They look like humans. And watching them, one can hardly help wondering if they're really the monsters we all took them for, for so very long.

I wonder if they think of us in the same way.

The truth is, probably, that we were the enemy to them, just as they were to us. And now we're what is called 'occupants'. We took control of houses, factories, hospitals, just as we saw fit. We went through their cellars and stores and emptied them as fancy struck us. We even control who is allowed to enter the city or leave it again. What is theirs can be ours in a mere second and there's nothing they can do about it. The spoils of war.

I'm not saying it's not justified. They lost, we won, at least as far as there was anything to be won in that war. And naturally, we have to check whether they stick to the agreements of the armistice, for only then we can be sure that the war is truly over.

And yet, I know instinctively that, had the war turned in the other direction, which was a very real threat in the past spring, I wouldn't have found comfort in that explanation. The thought of German soldiers' boots stomping across Canada was and is an abhorrent one. These might be the rules of the war, but I know I would have detested every last second.

What the Germans think about us is hard to tell. When we meet them, they usually quickly turn their head away, cast their eyes to the ground, and flit past us, obviously eager to escape our presence as soon as possible. There's just that short moment before they lower their heads during which you sometimes see what they truly think when they behold us.

Some seem interested, curious even. Sometimes, there's something calculated, taxing in their expressions. There's also loathing, even badly-suppressed hate, flaring up like a sudden flame. Most of them, however, seem more resigned, as if our presence was just another fact they have to arrange themselves with. It seems as if four years of war were enough to make even the Germans tired.

Slowly, I let my gaze travel further over the outwardly so normal scene of town life in front of my eyes – then pause suddenly.

A couple of steps away from me stands a little girl.

She is wrapped in a coat, clean but worn, her head covered in a green cap. Bangs fall into her eyes, which are watching me, shyly and yet curiously. She is small still, perhaps eight or nine years old, and as I can't see an adult close to her, I suppose she scarpered off for a minute or two there. And in doing so, she has obviously discovered me.

I don't know if she knows who or what I am. The soldiers' uniforms must be familiar to the children of this city by now, but there aren't so very many nurses here. Whether she knows I am part of that foreign power that seized control of her home, I can't tell. But something about me seems to have piqued her curiosity, for as she now notices me looking at her as well, she takes a cautious step closer, then another one.

I almost expect her to come to me, but she slightly changes directions, finally sitting down on the wall some five feet away from me. Despite how close we are, she looks straight ahead at first, only slowly turning her head to look at me again.

Her eyes beneath the bangs are shy, but there's also that pure, unaltered curiosity only children have. When I smile at her, it takes a moment, but then she smiles back. A little hesitatingly maybe, but it is still enough to light up the small face.

For several seconds, she seems to consider something, only to then quickly reach into the pocket of her coat. When she opens her hand, I can see a good dozen glass marbles. She looks down at them very earnestly, finally deciding on one particular marble, putting the others back into her pocket. Then, a quick motion of her hand, and she rolls the marble along the wall, over towards me. It is almost instinctively that I catch the marble, before looking down at it resting on my palm. It is interveined by green streaks.

When I roll back the marble, her smile widens.

It's curious sometimes, that, for all we rely on language so much, we can get by without any word just fine when we don't have any.

We roll the marble back and forth, five or six times, maybe. And every time, the girl inches a little closer to me. When I hold the marble in my hand for the seventh time, there are less than three feet separating us.

I just want to roll the marble again, when the girl suddenly raises her head. Following her gaze, I see a woman walking over to us in firm strides. The girl quickly looks from the woman to me and back again, then jumps to her feet and runs over to her.

The woman bends down towards her a little and, though I don't understand the words, I am certain she scolds her for running away. The girls lowers her head, abashed, and murmurs something intelligibly, but then she peers up at the woman from beneath her bangs and continues talking, increasingly faster and more excitedly.

And then, the woman raises her head and looks at me. For one or two seconds, our eyes meet above the girl's green cap. I can't tell what she is thinking. Her eyes are dark and unreadable.

It's just seconds before she bends down to the girl again. She quickly strokes her cheek before offering her a hand, which she girl takes readily. Without looking at me again, the woman starts walking, the girl falling into step behind her.

Are these monsters then?

Thoughtfully, I look after the girl with the green cap, as she crosses the square with the women. After several steps, they have to stop to let a wagon go past, and in that moment, the girl quickly turns around to me again. When she sees me watching, she raises her head and waves. I wave back, and a smile lights up her face, before she quickly turns back around. The wagon is past and as they continue on, the girls skips along beside the woman.

No, I think as roll the marble between my fingers. _You_ are no monster.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Belgium put the kibosh on the Kaiser' from 1914 (lyrics and music by Mark Sheridan)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Good call on the parallels between this dance and the Harbour Light one. The circumstances are very different, with one signifying the end of innocence and the other, the beginning of brighter times ahead, but I tried to get a bit of the feeling into this chapter. And in both cases, it's the first time Rilla and Ken properly dance together!  
I'm glad Rilla's thoughts in Glen worked for you. I gave this quite a bit of thought and I don't thin Glen can be a home for this version of Rilla anymore. So rather than risk her good memories of the place, she decides to make her new life elsewhere. Which is very convenient indeed, seeing as Ken would have been both without a job and likely turning mad in Glen ;).  
Hope those exams went well for you!_


	72. And in-flu-enza

_January 18_ _th_ _, 1919  
No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Bonn, Germany_

 **And in-flu-enza**

"How are you today, Acheson?" I enquire while laying a hand on the private's forehead.

"Better, Sister," he croaks. The coughing fit shaking him mere seconds later, reliably tells me that he's exaggerating just a _little_ bit though.

"Do you want me to give you something for the cough?" I ask, already reaching for the bottle with the heroin-based cough drops.

With effort, he shakes his head, as the coughing slowly subsides. "It's alright," he murmurs.

I click my tongue disapprovingly but put the bottle back on the medicine wagon. Instead, I offer him a glass. "Here, drink up," I order.

Acheson looks from me to the filled glass and back again, doubt filling his eyes. I can't really blame him. The glass is filled with a mixture of milk, lime juice and raw egg. It tastes about as appetizing as it sounds – which is to say, not a lot.

"I'll be back in ten minutes and I expect the glass to be empty by then," I inform him firmly.

"Yes, Sister," mutters Acheson. He raises himself into a half-sitting position with no little effort and reaches for the glass. Then he takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a straining task, puts the glass to his lips and takes the first sip.

It's not that I don't understand him. Too well do I remember a time when it took me far too much strength to drink a whole glass, regardless of contents. But there's no helping it. It's far too important to get them drinking and the milk-lime-egg-mixture has the additional benefit of being nourishing.

Giving Acheson an encouraging pat on the shoulder, I turn away to survey the rest of the ward. As weak as he still it, there's no doubt that Acheson is among the patients who are already in a slightly improved state. He's already over the worst of it, which isn't true for the majority of men on this ward.

The flu.

It is rather telling that just the utterance of these two words lets everyone know what you're talking about. It's not just flu. No, it's _the_ flu.

It's a little curious considering that the flu held me in its clutches as well, but I am only now beginning to realize how bad it really is and how badly it has raged in the past year.

During the first wave, back in spring, I was on duty in the moribund ward and, later on, ensconced in our little house of dreams in Brittany – safe from everything that could have hurt me. And besides, it wasn't so very bad, that first wave, was it? Yes, even I noticed how many people fell ill, but most of them were like Persis. Three, four, five days of illness, during which they felt pretty poorly, but afterwards, they were back on their feet pretty quickly. I think, watching the patients of that first wave, no one could have predicted what was to follow.

What followed was autumn. With everything I know now, it seems a little absurd that it all went over my head the way it did. Yet, that's how it happened. In September, I didn't fully miss the increase in flu patients, but I took it for a simple return of the spring flu and patients were never in our train long enough for us to realise that we were all fighting a different beast.

And then – then came the weeks when I tried to shut out the world. When I look back at that endless night, my memories are torn and disjointed. The outside world didn't matter to me anymore and while I do vaguely remember that there were some cases of flu in the hospital, I was too caught up in my grief and pain to take any real notice of it. And because the flu patients were amassed on a different ward from mine, I wasn't confronted by them often enough to pierce my protective shell of indifference.

That's my best explanation for I made it through the past autumn without truly realising the extent of the flu. Yes, I was ill myself. Yes, Jem told me who else fell ill. Yes, he told me that Bruce and Susan died of the flu. But I think I didn't really start to understand until Bryony and Lucy told me about their own experiences during these awful weeks.

Lucy was in a hospital near London in autumn. What she told me about that time is almost unimaginable. Hospitals filled far over capacity. Doctors and nurses working to exhaustion. People just dropping dead on the street. Whole families carried off in mere days. Too many dead for the undertakers to bury properly. And _fear_. It was the ever-present fear, Lucy said, that was most noticeable. It was fear that turned a lively city such as London into a place where people didn't even trust their own neighbour.

It's understandable when one looks at the sheer numbers. Four thousand dead in and around London in just one week at the beginning of November. _Four thousand_! That's more victims than there were in many an offensive. And that was just London and just one week. If you think about how many cities all over the world there must have been with an equal number of victims… you don't _want_ to add up the numbers.

Bryony was in Étaples during autumn and what she reported from the camp there, sounded hardly better than conditions in London. Young, healthy, strong soldiers carried off by the dozens, some in days, some in mere _hours_. Young men who survived the war, only to be killed by something as banal as the flu. As if it had come, that flu, to finish what the war had started.

Considering all this, it does indeed seem absurd that I managed to escape the horror of the flu, and yet I didn't take note of it until it found me instead. And when I was back on my feet, the worst of it was over.

Until now.

We've had flu patients ever since I arrived in Germany and their number has only increased. In the past days especially, they sent in quite a lot of them and they now make up the majority of patients in this hospital. And when, on January 10th, a little over a week ago, the first three patients of the year died, I went to Matron Burke and asked for transferral to the medical ward. She didn't even try to hide her doubts – I don't think it escaped her notice that I'm not nearly as strong as I'd like to be – but she couldn't argue against the fact that my own bout of flu ensured that I wasn't in any danger of catching it again.

That day, January 10th was, by the way, also the day when Ken and his unit left for Belgium. Because one bad thing rarely comes on its own. And I have to admit that I was tempted, more than once, just to drop everything and leave with him. What sense does it make, for me to still be here, three months after the armistice?

That I didn't go in the end was down to several reasons. For one, Ken doesn't expect them to leave Belgium any time soon and Germany is still closer to Belgium than England is. For another, I owe it to Matron not to leave her hanging. She made them send me here because I asked her to, and she didn't report my marriage – what's more, she actually made it possible for me to see Ken. I owe it to her to finish my job.

That's not to say, however, that I won't drop everything the very moment I get even the slightest hint about the flu catching up to me husband. I left detailed instructions with Matt, to call for me immediately when Ken has so much as a cold or throat ache. There's nothing in this world that could keep me from his side then.

But as long as he is obviously healthy, my place is here, with the husbands and sons and brothers of other women, who were less lucky.

With firm strides, I cross the ward, putting my hand on sweaty foreheads as I pass, or pulling blankets tights over trembling bodies. They're red, the blankets. Normally, army-issue blankets are grey or brown, because they are meant to be practical rather than pretty, but in this hospital, they are red. And while I have to admit that red is a much prettier colour than brown or grey, I still can't shake a feeling of uneasiness at the sight of a ward filled with red blankets.

Maybe it's because red blankets on hospital beds remind me a little too much of red flowers on graves.

I take a deep breath and angrily push the thought away. This isn't Flanders and there are more pressing matters to attend to than worrying about the colour of the blankets.

And so, I continue with my rounds. When I bend over Uppington, a young corporal lying in a bed in the middle of the ward, and take his pulse, he opens his eyes and looks at me.

"Please, Sister…" he whispers in a voice so quiet as to be almost inaudible. "Please, it hurts so much…" Then, a rattling breath that makes it impossible for him to speak.

I remember the pain. When the head feels as if it might burst at any moment, when the body hurts at the slightly movement, when every breath pains the tortured lungs. It's just snatches of memories, but I remember the pain.

"It's alright. I'll give you something that'll help," I murmur, sliding my hands under his armpits and pulling him into a half-sitting position. His eyes close and his face becomes even paler during the movement, but his body hangs limply in my arms, far too exhausted to offer either assistance or resistance.

After having leaned him against the bed's headboard – he's far too weak to sit upright on his own – I have to wait for several moments for my own arms to stop shaking enough so that I can pull out the brown glass bottle with aspirin pills from my pocket. My fingers flutter over the lid for some seconds before I manage to grasp and open it. When I turn the bottle, I only intend to drop two pills into my left hand, but the movement becomes a little uncoordinated, forcing me to put four surplus pills back into the bottle.

I gently touch Uppington's shoulder, causing him to slowly open his eyes. "Mouth open," I order. When his lips part, I quickly slide both pills between them and put a glass of water to his mouth. "And swallow," I add. His eyes flutter up to meet mine, but he takes a strained sip.

Aspirin won't save him. If he's lucky, it'll help a bit against the pain and lower the fever a little.

When Uppington has emptied about a third of the glass in tiny sips, I take pity on him and pull the glass away. Either the pills were swallowed with one of the sips or they have dissolved by now. His eyes flutter shut again, and he sighs, relieved at not having to drink anymore, so I gently push him back down into a lying position. With the back of my hand, I quickly touch his forehead. Far too warm.

"You should sleep now," I remark sympathetically. His eyes open once more, and his lips start to form words, far too quiet to be audible. I already know they are words of thanks.

I leave Uppington with a feeling of concern, but I have to move on. For even he isn't one of the worst cases.

As I pass, I register an empty bed, stripped of its bedding. The patient who occupied it was only brought here this morning. By midday, he was dead.

One of the most awful aspects of this flu is that we can't foretell its progression. With some patients, it reminds me of the spring flu – some days of debilitating illness, followed by a relatively quick recovery. Some lie prostrate for weeks, to either recover at the end or waste away. And then there are those that appear healthy in the morning and are dead by night.

Often enough, it's not even the flu itself that kills them but pneumonia, frequently of the haemorrhagic kind. Though it really doesn't make much of a difference, for we are powerless against both. We can try to battle the chills with hot water bottles and blankets, to fight the fever with cold compresses. We can give them aspirin for the pain and water and tea to keep them from getting dehydrated. But we can't do anything to really help them.

I hurry on, to the furthest end of the ward. This is where we keep the worst cases. The Serbs.

Not quite a week ago, they sent us 65 Serbs, all of them former POWs. It was the same day when the future king himself came to visit the hospital and took tea with the doctors and nurses, causing much excitement. Perhaps that's the reason why we took a little time to properly notice the patients they had brought us.

They are wretched creatures. They survived German captivity and normally, should be heading back home now, back to their families. But they are in no condition to do so. The sight of them always makes me feel fiercely grateful that our boys were spared this fate, at least. For even when they brought them to us, the Serbs were very weak and very ill. Now the flu rages amongst them worst of all.

I don't know their names and can't talk to them either. Their language is even more foreign to me that the language of this country, which none of us calls home. But most of them don't even attempt to talk anyway. They're far too weak for that.

For a moment, I hesitate in the aisle between the beds, take in the state of the Serbian patients. They are exhausted, haggard, emaciated figures, whose bodies suffered too many strains to have any strength left to fight the flu. My eyes are drawn to one of them in particular, three beds to my left.

His face is a bluish colour, his lips almost purple. Cyanosis is the medical term, but in practice, it only means that he is suffocating.

I walk over to him, touching his cool, clammy face. I don't even bother with taking pulse or temperature. This man's death is just another certainty.

His eyelids flutter and finally open with much effort. His irises, I notice absent-mindedly, are almost the colour of his lips. He opens his lips, draws in a rattling breath. His gums are coloured as well, his tongue's a thick, blue clump. His chest rises and lowers slowly, painfully, as his muscles try their hardest to keep the failing lungs working.

A coughing fit overcomes him. I look around for a bowl but there is none within reach, so I can't prevent blood and pus dripping onto the blanket. At least the blood isn't as noticeable on the red.

I am left with nothing to do but carefully support his head so that he doesn't choke on the sputum at least – though that really wouldn't make much of a difference now – and gently stroke his forehead. There's nothing I can do for him. I am completely powerless.

And each time I sit there next to a patient I am unable to save, I can't help but think back on the many gas cases I couldn't save either. Death, brought by either gas or flu, almost looks the same. The lungs fill up with fluid, which the body tries to cough out at first, until it can cope no longer, and the patient suffocates. It sounds very simple, described like that, but I think that's just because the reality is too horrible for words.

The coughing subsides a little and I lower the man's head back onto the pillow. He is too weak to hold it up himself, too weak, really, to have any kind of control over his body, but his eyes suddenly fix on my face. They are veiled by illness and fever, but for a moment, it feels as if he is really looking at me. Then the eyelids fall shut again.

It's the unfairness of it all that is maybe hardest to bear. He survived war and captivity, this nameless man with his strangely blue eyes, and he was so _close_ to going home, only for this devious illness to come and carry him off yet, causing him to die in a faraway country.

I don't know this man. But I know he doesn't deserve this.

Sighing softly, I start to reach for the soiled blanket, when a sudden noise behind me makes me turn around.

At the sight presenting itself, I flinch involuntarily. Some steps away from me stands another man and he wouldn't be very imposing, what with his emaciated body, if it wasn't for the blood. In two thick streams, it flows from his nose, over mouth and chin, dripping on his shirt and down on the floor. Half his face is smeared in blood and, as I notice after a second, it also drips from his ears to his shoulders.

Even more disconcerting, however, is the look in his eyes. They are opened wide, darting back and forth, frantic, unseeing. Wherever he thinks himself to be, it's not here.

Delirium. It happens with this flu, just as the bleeding from nose and ears does. Neither is a good sign. And just as I can't help thinking of the gas cases when I see a patient with pneumonia, the delirious ones always remind me of those that couldn't cope with reality any longer. Shell Shock, neurasthenia, NYDN (or 'not yet diagnosed – nervous', as the full diagnosis goes) – however one wants to call them. It doesn't make much of a difference whether its illness taking away their hold on reality of whether it's of their own minds' making.

With a jolt, the bleeding man comes to life.

His head moves from side to side several times, before his gaze fixes on a window, just steps to his right. It's open, despite the winter cold, so that the patients can at least get enough air. And the moment I realize what he intends to do, he is already moving towards the window.

Pure instinct makes me rush after him, even as the more rational part of my mind already knows that I and my trembling arms will hardly be able to stop him. He might be weakened and cachectic, but the delirium gives him a strength I could not hope to fight against.

And yet… should I just stand by and watch him jump?

He has already started to climb up on the windowsill when I reach out a hand and grasp the cloth of his shirt. His head whips around, wild eyes glaring at me. His mouth is covered in bloody froth. Then a jolt, a push, and I stagger backwards, just manage to get hold of a bedframe to keep myself from falling.

The man pulls up the second leg, turns back towards the window and, as if in slow motion, I can see what will come, can see him _jump_ – but suddenly, there are other hands, grasping him and pulling him back. Stronger hands than my own.

An angry roar fills the room.

He fights with more strength than his body should logically possess. It needs three orderlies to get him back to his bed, part dragging and part pushing and part carrying him. He fights them with everything he has but they outnumber him. And so, they finally force him down and hold him there, while one of the doctors injects a sedative into his arm.

The entire time, I stand still, leaning heavily on the bedframe. Only when the movements of the bleeding man start to become slower, more sluggish, as his resistance starts to break, do I tear my gaze away and turn back towards the man with blue eyes in a blue face.

But he is already dead.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the children's rhyme 'I had a little bird', which was well-known in 1918 but probably goes back to the 19_ _th_ _century in some version or another (source unknown):_  
I had a little bird,  
Its name was Enza.  
I opened the window,  
And in-flu-enza.

 _The future king is Prince Edward, Prince of Wales (1894-1972), oldest son of King George V. of the United Kingdom. After his father's death in 1936, he ascended the throne as King Edward VIII., only to abdicate within a year to marry his divorced lover, Wallis Simpson. He was succeeded by his brother, King George VI., father of today's Queen Elizabeth II. After the abdication, Edward and Wallis lived predominately on France, except for the years between 1940 and 1945, when Edward was Governor of the Bahamas. They had no issue._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
I'm glad that Walter's Catholicism ended up making sense to you. It was an experiment and I realised that it would be a controversial one, but it's always a bit of a relief to hear that not only did it not scare readers away but that I made it work to a certain extent.  
The cathedral is certainly impressive and it has some lovely details (to my delight, I even discovered gargoyles). It is certainly worth a visit, both during daytime and in the evening hours. They do a great job of illuminating it at night!  
You voice a lot of what I tried to capture with the German civilians here. They are humans, just normal people whose daily life was interrupted by war and who suffered as much as people on the other side did. And yet, of course the future looms. They might not be monsters, but they will go on to show the world quite what normal humans are capable of on their own. And while I like to thing that the little girl and her green cap will escape the worst of it, her life won't be an easy one. Hope might spring eternal, but life rarely is that simple.  
(By the way, If you ever do register and are alright with sharing, I'd love to hear that family story one day :).)  
_


	73. I'm a-growing weary only

_February 10_ _th_ _, 1919  
No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Bonn, Germany_

 **I'm a-growing weary only**

"And you're sure you don't want to come along?" Bryony asks me with a searching look.

I shake my head. "No, you go ahead. I'm going to write some letters and go to bed early," I decline with a nod towards a pile of mail awaiting me.

Bryony pouts. "Oh, please, come with us!" she insists. "I'm sure it'll be fun."

"I'm not saying it won't be," I clarify. "I'm just saying that I am tired."

"You are _always_ tired," mutters Bryony.

I shrug, for what am I supposed to say? In the past weeks, I've _really_ always been tired.

"You are!" insists Bryony, despite my lack of protest. "You hardly ever accompany us anywhere."

She does have another point there, admittedly. It's been a month since Ken and his battalion left and while it didn't turn me into a hermit, I'm certainly not going along on every excursion my fellow nurses come up with. Which is not for a lack of opportunities.

During December and the first half of January, there were lots of Canadians troops stationed in the area, who lost no time requisitioning every castle and manor they could find. The officers of almost every unit invited us nurses and the doctors to dinners and tea parties. And while I preferred to spend my free time with my husband, there are nurses who supposedly danced with every Canadian officer who was part of the occupation force.

After the Canadians left, Imperial troops took over their billets and also proceeded to make sure that our supply of invitations was never in danger of drying up. But while many of my colleagues take ample advantage of the social opportunities open to them, I have remained more reserved.

That's not to say I didn't leave the hospital at all. Only last week, I accompanied Bryony on a shopping trip down in Bonn and we spent a lovely afternoon in the old town. And on the weekend before last, Lucy and I undertook an outing with two other nurses and three officers of our unit, which saw us drive to the south, to visit a region of woods and little rivers and pretty villages and, curiously, vineyards. (Who knew the Germans had vineyards?)

I am, therefore, far from a hermit. But it is also true that I am usually far too tired in the evening for the thought of dinners or dances to hold much appeal. Which is why Bryony and Lucy usually set forth with other nurses and doctors, leaving me to a quiet evening. More often than not, I am fast asleep by the time they return.

Bryony still does her best to convince me to come along though. Right now, she eyes me speculatively, as if trying to think of a way to lure me out of the room.

"Come on," Lucy choses that moment to interject. "We have to leave. Maybe Rilla will come next time."

I meet Bryony's deeply sceptical gaze with a noncommittal smile. We both know that that's not very likely, even more so as there's no telling how many opportunities for outings in Germany we still have left.

Nevertheless, Bryony finally allows Lucy to direct her toward the door with gentle firmness.

"Have fun!" I call after them.

"Sleep well," Bryony shoots back and I feel myself smiling.

The door falls shut behind them, their footsteps in the hall growing fainter as they leave. I let myself sink down in my bed, grateful for the silence.

For a moment, I just sit there and revel in the feeling of finally being able to allow my weary limbs to rest. Only then do I stretch out an arm and reach for today's mail.

There are only two letters from Canada today, one from Faith and one from Dad. When it became apparent that we were receiving an increasing number of flu cases, I wrote to him and asked him for advice concerning their treatment. The sheer distance means that it's been four weeks since I sent that letter and by now, the current flu wave seems to be subsiding as well, but I am still interested in hearing if they maybe found a treatment in distant Canada that left them feeling less helpless than we did here.

A quick skim of the letter, however, reveals that that apparently wasn't the case. Keep them warm, try to get the fever down, aspirin and fresh air. That's more or less what we've been doing as well. I can only hope that these measures proved more effective on our island than they did among our weakened Serbs. For despite our best efforts, a third of them didn't make it.

With a sigh, I fold Dad's letter in half. I should probably be grateful that he's at least not treating me like someone in need of protection anymore. I think I can understand why he decided to keep me in the dark back in autumn, about both the flu and its consequences, but today, I would accept such treatment less easily. Maybe he noticed, for his letter is open and honest and, but for the gentle reminder not to overwork myself, it could be a letter written from one colleague to the next. It still fills me with awe and not a little bit of pride that we can communicate like that.

I put Dad's letter down on my bed stand, next to the still unopened one from Faith. Letters from Faith, not unlike those from Jem, are well-suited to being read last. They rarely fail in making me laugh.

From Belgium, there are two letters as well. One, naturally, is from Ken, and my fingers open it on their own accord. His battalion is stationed in a small village, right in the middle between Liège and Namur, and as far as I understood, he and his officers regarded the prepared accommodation as insufficient, deciding to set up headquarters in the local castle instead – which wasn't to the delight of the resident countess. When he first wrote about it, I couldn't refrain from enquiring how, exactly, he intends to go back to living in normal houses after all the nights spent in European castles. He wrote back to say that he prefers our little house on the cliffs over a hundred castles and who can argue with that?

In today's letter, Ken writes about how they are slowly starting to prepare for demobilization, thought he doesn't expect them to be shipped to England before next month at the earliest. It is, to be honest, still a little strange. The war has been over for three months now, almost to the day, and yet, only a fraction of our troops seems to have made it home so far. The majority of them are still stuck in Belgium and one can't help wondering what they're _doing_ there.

When I put that question to Ken, his answer made it clear that they're mostly occupied with keeping occupied. The usual training continues, though I don't really understand what they're still training _for_. There are parades and hikes, presentations on different topics and a kind of lecturing program, aiming to prepare the men for occupation in peace times. That, at least, sounds like a sensible idea.

Shirley, who sent the other letter from Belgium, already seems to be a couple of steps ahead. His division wasn't part of the occupation force, so they were able to start the preparations, which Ken is only now beginning to undertake, that much sooner. Shirley, too, is still in Belgium, somewhere close to the French border and thus, not far from Lille, but he expects to be shipped to England within the week. And seeing as I am still in Germany and Ken in Belgium, seeing as Jem's hospital likely won't close down for a while yet and no one knows quite where Carl and his submarine are, it's starting to look like Shirley will be the first of us to return home.

Home.

It still feels curious, to be honest. We all _want_ to be sent home, of course, but when no apparent efforts to that effect were to be detected after the armistice, a certain routine started to set in. Somehow, one has almost gotten used to _not_ going home. So much so, that the impending return is increasingly starting to feel surreal.

And yet, it appears to become reality now. I had a letter from Colette only last week, in which she reports that they are to close down the hospital in Saint Cloud in the next couple of days and leave for Le Havre. Add to that that, in the last few days, I've also noticed an increasing number of the Imperials who are to take over this hospital swarming around, it's really starting to feel like Canada.

Folding Shirley's letter back together, I reach for the lone letter that arrived from England. I expect it to be from Jem, or else from one of my old colleagues, but am surprised by recognizing Persis's handwriting on the envelope instead.

Frowning, I look down at the writing. Persis is in England? Until just a moment ago, I had thought her still in Rouen.

It's a thin envelope and, once opened, it only reveals one sheet of paper. The letter itself it quite short, really only a note to let me know that she has somehow managed to get herself transferred to a private convalescent hospital for officers in London. And I have to say that I am relieved at hearing it. It was evident from her previous letters that the months of caring for flu patients really took something out of her. If she finds some rest in this new hospital, that can only be a good thing.

Putting Persis's letter to the side, I just want to take up the one from Faith, when there's a loud knock on the door. "Come in," I call out and moments later, the door opens to reveal Olive O'Donnell, one of my fellow nursing sisters.

"You're still awake. Good," she notes with obvious relief. She looks a little agitated.

"What's the matter?" I want to know. I have a feeling that both reading Faith's letter and getting rest have just receded into the far distance.

"Dr Cormer wants to see you," Olives states. "It's important."

Into the _very_ far distance.

With a sigh, I get up from the bed and slide my feet into my boots, which I hoped not to be forced to put back on until the morning at the earliest. While I reach for my veil, Olive remains standing in the doorway, shifting from one leg to the other.

The moment I am on my feet, Olive abruptly turns, motioning for me to follow. She walks quickly, and I have to hurry to keep up with her while still fastening my veil. Luckily, I can do that blindly after all this time.

I expect us to head to Dr Cormer's office or maybe to the treatment rooms, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Instead, we pass both the staircase leading to the doctors' offices as well as the turn towards the treatment rooms.

Where then…?

I realise it in the very moment when Olive stops in front of a door.

The operating theatre.

My heart immediately doubles its pace.

When I don't react, Olive reaches out to open the door for me. "In here," she adds helpfully.

"Thanks," I manage. I turn, so that she won't be able to see my face anymore. Instead, I am looking at the open doorway. Can a doorway be menacing?

I know I ought to enter. But my feet feel as if made from lead, for which I can't even blame the tiredness this time. My whole being baulks at the thought of crossing the threshold and facing what lies behind it.

In my head, thoughts are buzzing around in an attempt to think my way out of this. The primitive part of me just wants to turn and run, but just when I think that the primitive part might yet win out, Dr Cormer sees me. "Ah, Miss Blythe. Please come in," he asks.

Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Raise one foot, move it forward, put it down again.

The first step is done.

The second is no easier.

Still, I am moving slowly forwards, one step after the other, trying to ignore the fact that I can hardly breathe.

The door falls shut behind me. I open my eyes.

We aren't in the real operating theatre yet. It looks more like an anteroom. And yet, already, the familiar smell is so much stronger here than in any other part of the hospital, making me gag.

Dr Cormer turns, comes towards me. He considers me dispassionately.

"I thank you for coming," he states. I nod mutely. My eyes are searching for something to hold on to and fixate on his absurdly large moustache. I suppose it's as good as anything.

"I want you to assist me during an operation," he continues. The ends of his moustache quiver when he talks.

"Couldn't… isn't there another nurse to do it?" I ask weakly. I don't know from where I get the words. The floor beneath my feet is swaying dangerously.

A firm shake of the head from Dr Cormer. "Most of them took up the invitation for dinner from the English officers. Apart from you, there's no one here who is qualified," he replies.

But I am _not_ qualified. Not when the mere thought of an operation makes panic rise within me.

Frantically, I try to find a way out. We are twelve nurses, including Matron. Even when the majority is gone, there must at least be the night sisters remaining.

"Miss O'Donnell…" I begin timidly.

Dr Cormer shakes his head once more. "Miss O'Donnell has no relevant experience to speak of and besides, I have never worked with her this closely. I know I can rely on you," he explains, not unkindly.

I take a deep breath. How am I to tell him that I am not nearly as reliable a nurse as I was when he knew me in Aubigny? That too much has happened since then?

At least he seems to notice my hesitation. "What's wrong, Miss Blythe?" he asks, and I try not to start at the name.

"I haven't… I haven't attended an operation since the fighting in Flanders in 1917," I admit, hoping it might be enough for him to let me go.

Instead, a smile spreads beneath the moustache. "Dr Steele told me something very different," he points out.

Dr Steele?

Right. Ken's battalion medical officer.

He's talking about the man with the injured artery. Davis was his name.

But that was different, wasn't it? I had no time to think then, and certainly not to doubt. It was in my hands alone and the only alternative would have been to let him die. His death would have weighed more heavily on me than the reality of an operation. I knew that instinctively. But that doesn't mean that I can now enter any operation theatre without being overcome by panic. It isn't that easy!

"That was… there was no other option. The soldier would have died otherwise," I reply haltingly.

"And so, you dared and he survived," reminds Dr Cormer.

I nod silently. I know that Davis survived. He spent a while in this hospital before they transferred him to a hospital near the French coast last month. But this, I only know because I was told so. During the entire time he was here, I made sure never to see him.

"Take a look at our patient. You will see that there is no other option in this case either," Dr Cormer suggests.

Which is precisely what I am afraid of.

Still, I manage a small nod. Dr Cormer smiles encouragingly and his moustache quivers. With a wave of the hand, he motions for me to follow him around a screen.

I expect to see a soldier. Instead, I see a boy.

He is young, maybe ten or twelve years old. His hair is dark from sweat, the eyes firmly closed. His face is flushed a feverish red. His hands lie on the red blanket – though… in truth, it is only _one_ hand. What must have been his left hand once is now only a shapeless, bruised _something_.

I didn't take me more than two seconds to get an overview of the situation and I know instinctively that Dr Cormer is right. There is no other option. The injured hand got infected and the infection has already started spreading through his body. To wait would be a travesty, transferal into another hospital insufferable for the boy.

And yet.

Can such a mangled hand be saved?

 _Ritsch ratsch_.

Desperately, I try to fight down the nausea rising within me. My mouth is filled with bile.

I tear my gaze away from the hand or what is left of it and, by chance, it falls on the two people standing next to the boy. A man and a woman, simply dressed, both pale with fear. His parents, I realise. Then, only moments later: _Germans_.

Why they brought him to this hospital, despite us not normally treating civilians, I don't know. Why they have only brought him _now_ when we would have been able to help him so much more easily before the infection spread, I can't tell either. But my gaze meets the fearful eyes of the woman and I suddenly know, without a doubt, that her panic surpasses everything I could possibly feel.

She takes an involuntary step towards me. Words fall from her lips, words in that language and don't understand and don't _want_ to understand either. And yet, there's a word that stands out. A word I know. _Bitte_. Please.

I don't answer her pleading. Instead, I turn my head and look at Dr Cormer. And then, very slowly, I nod.

After that, everything happens very quickly. The parents are sent outside and for several long moments after the man has gently steered the woman out of the door, her sobs carry over towards us. The anaesthetist applies the ether masks and I feel a wave of gratefulness for his presence. To operate on the boy without anaesthesia is something I wouldn't have been able to bear.

Both Dr Cormer and I put on scrubs, sterilise our hands and arms, and the entire time I am on the lookout for the second surgeon, until I realise with a jolt that no second surgeon will come. I suppose they are all absent, for one reason or another, which explains why Dr Cormer as CO of this unit is operating himself. (It seems a curious decision to let them all go at the same time. Sure, it's the turn of No. 2 CCS down in the city to receive patients today, but still, it feels almost negligent.)

Finally, we're all of us in the operating theatre. The anaesthetist, two orderlies, Dr Cormer and me. And the boy with the destroyed hand.

The human hand consists of 27 bones and 33 muscles as well as sinews and ligaments, nerves and blood vessels, and the skin to keep it all together.

Not here.

What happened to the boy, I do not know – probably an accident? – but whatever it was, it left his hand in a desperate condition. On the back of it, there are large blue and purple discolorations, the palm of his hand is badly bruised. Middle and index fingers are bent, the thumb snapped at the first joint, the little finger protrudes at an impossible degree. The ring finger looks worst of all. The bones are splintered, sticking out from the skin, ghostly pale.

I can't say how long it takes. Hours, probably. Hours in which Dr Cormer forms this shapeless something back into a human hand, with both patience and certainty. He sets bones and joints, sutures sinews and blood vessels and finally, closes the skin around it.

And while we work, the world shrinks around us, causes everything else to move into the background. There is no moment but the present one, no place but this theatre, no task but the boy and his hand.

It helps to concentrate. When I turn all my senses on the hand, don't think of yesterday or tomorrow or even of the fact that this hand belongs to a little German boy, I can bear it. If I concentrate, I can keep nausea and vertigo at bay, can keep still my trembling hands and trembling legs.

At least right until the moment when Dr Cormer extends a hand and ask me for the bone saw so that he can amputate the ring finger.

 _Ritsch ratsch_.

The second he applies the saw the sound is in my head. Loud, far too _loud_. It drowns out everything else, prevents all thought. My heart beats too fast, breath will not come. My trembling hands reach for the edge of the surgical table. The world swims losing all form and shape. I want to run but remain frozen. Darkness pulls at the edges of my consciousness.

 _Ritsch ratsch_.

When I come around again, I am outside.

Only slowly do my senses return. I am leaning against the wall of the building, head bent forward, elbows on my knees. There's a bitter taste in my mouth and a swooshing sound in my ears. It is dark and cold.

I take several deep breaths, drinking in the cold winter air. It helps a little. Experimentally, I try to raise my head. Slowly, very slowly, so that the world remains in its rightful place. I lean my head back against the wall, close my eyes and let go of a breath.

It's over.

Footsteps come closer. Hesitatingly, I turn my head, open my eyes reluctantly. Matron is heading towards me.

"Here you are! Dr Cormer was worried when you disappeared after the operation," she remarks. When she has reached me, she puts a testing hand against my cheek.

It takes a moment for my woozy head to make sense of her words. Then, I frown _. After_ the operation? I could have sworn…

I could have sworn that I fled. Away from the saw, away from the _sound_. But when I try to remember, there's nothing. I was there and now I am here. No idea how I got from one place to the other. No idea what happened in the interim. No idea how much time even passed. Minutes? Hours?

I feel myself starting to tremble.

"There, there," murmurs Matron, gently patting my shoulder. "All is well. You did well."

But the trembling won't subside. It shakes my whole body. My teeth chatter loudly. My hands ball into fists and tremble still.

"I am… I am so… so awfully tired," I manage. From somewhere, tears have come. They leave hot trails on my cold face.

"Of course, you are," sighs Matron. "You overtaxed your body too much in the past weeks. If I had known how ill you really were, I never would have agreed to your transfer. No wonder you're exhausted."

I want to argue but find that I can't. The words won't come and, truth to be told, she is right. I am so very exhausted. I have been exhausted for weeks and, with every day, grow more exhausted still.

"Tomorrow, I'll send you to Cologne, to the _Sick Sister's Hospital_. I want you to get some sleep and rest there," Matron declares, and her tone would allow no protest even if I had the strength to argue. Instead, I just nod. The trembling doesn't let up and neither do the tears.

"Good," nods Matron. "The day after tomorrow, all of us nurses will come there as well and then, we're going to start on the return journey together. We are going home."

 _Home._

Has there even been a more beautiful word?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'There's a Long Long Trail A-Winding' from 1914 (lyrics by Stoddard King, music by Alonzo Elliott)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
The Serbian soldiers, sadly, existed in real life. They are mentioned in the war diary of _No. 1 Canadian CCS _. As told in this chapter, about a third of them died. The milk-egg-lime-mixture, too, is rooted in historical facts. They did, in fact, fed it to flu patient, though to what measure of success, I can't say (probably not a lot).  
Actually, the way the nurses subvert typical gender roles, while ostensibly following them on the surface, is one of the most interesting aspect of war nursing to me. On one hand, nursing was women's work and in that respect, they fulfilled the gender expectations. On the other hand, as you said, you get women with a lot of power and knowledge in a male-dominated world, which doesn't fit with typical stereotypes of the times at all. It made for a pretty unique position, which is quite fascinating to me. And as for Rilla, she got herself a husband despite doing an awful lot to prevent it. That's quite the talent in itself! ;)_


	74. The right to love

_March 8_ _th_ _, 1919  
Northwood Hospital for Nursing Sisters, Buxton, England_

 **The right to love**

"Miss Blythe? There's a visitor for you."

I raise my eyes from Maud's letter and take a quick glance around the sitting room, but it is filled only with other nurses, both patients and personnel alike.

"He's waiting outside," is the helpful explanation.

And just like that, I know it to be Shirley.

It takes a moment for me to be wrapped up tightly enough in coat and scarf so that I can get permission to leave the house. Even then, it comes with the added warning not to leave the garden and not to stay outside for too long.

I hate being a patient.

But there's little I wouldn't promise to be able to finally see my brother again, and so I finally manage to shake off the worried glances and go outside in the garden.

Once there, I immediately spy Shirley, standing next to a group of trees, which are, in early March, still mostly devoid of leaves. He has his hands burrowed in the pockets of his coats and his eyes turned to the ground in thought. When he hears me, he raises his head.

I take the few steps down from the house and actually intend to run to him and give him a hug, but when I've almost reached him, I see his body stiffen. He remains standing where he is, but instinctively leans away from me, pulling his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Right.

No touching.

I come to a stand, take a deep breath.

"Hello Rilla," he greets me and his voice sounds calm.

I let go of the breath again. "Hello Shirley."

For several seconds, we just stand opposite each other, both silent. I push my hands into my own pockets because I don't know what else to do with them. "Shall we walk a bit?" I suggest, nodding towards the further end of the garden.

Shirley nods his consent. "Sure."

Northwood House, where they established a hospital for up to 35 Canadian nursing sisters a while back, stands on a hill on the northern edge of Buxton. It is a little manor, not very big, but pretty, and it even has a small tower at one side. The front overlooks the town and at the back is a small wood which I can see from the window in my room. The house itself is surrounded by a typical English garden.

"How are you?" I ask after we have taken a couple of steps.

Shirley shrugs, which really isn't a very informative answer. "And you?" he instead handballs the question back to me.

"Fine, fine," I answer quickly. When I notice his sceptical side-eye, I have to smile. "I really _am_ fine!" I insist. "I'm not ill or anything. I just overtaxed my body too soon after my brush with the flu. The doctors call it _debility_ and I suppose they aren't wrong. I did nothing but sleep for two weeks, but now I am really feeling much better."

Our journey from Germany back to England took more than a week. We took an ambulance train from Cologne to Étaples, where we spent several days before moving north to Boulogne and from there took a ship to Shorncliffe. Once in Shorncliffe, despite my protest, Matron Burke took me to the nearest hospital where an army doctor decided to send me on to Northwood without further ado. Northwood, where I so steadfastly refused to go only last autumn.

If I'm being honest though, it's not too bad. Our unit is being in the process of being dissolved anyway, so all nurses are attached either to the CAMC Depot in Shorncliffe or sent to other hospitals in England. Therefore, I would have lost Bryony, Lucy and Matron Burke anyway, and even I have to admit that this _debility_ continuously worsened during my last weeks in Bonn. And I definitely can't deny that it was heavenly to spend the past two weeks just sleeping and doing nothing.

"What about you? What are you doing? Do you know when they're going to send you back to Canada?" I turn the focus of the conversation back to Shirley. I am, after all, quite sick of everyone being worried about me. I have to write daily letters to Ken to assure him that I am perfectly fine. According to Matt, he's still not convinced.

"In one or two weeks, by the looks of it," Shirley answers matter-of-factly.

I look at him, surprised. "And they're allowing you to get leave this close to your departure?" I ask. I thought they'd keep the men close together in the days before shipping them home, even the officers.

Shirley shrugs. "I already took most of my leave. I have to be back the day after tomorrow," he explains.

For a second, I am inclined to ask why he only comes to see me _now_ , but I suppose that wouldn't be fair. If he had come a week ago, chances are I would have fallen asleep on him after half an hour. "And how did you spend your leave?" I enquire instead, making sure to sound upbeat.

A moment of silence.

"I was in Scotland. With Carl," Shirley answers curtly. His voice sounds almost brusque all of a sudden.

I cast a curious glance at him. "Carl? Really? Has he left his submarine?" I want to know.

"He's been assigned to a different submarine. Before his transfer, he has been granted two weeks of leave. He doesn't think the Navy will let him go before summer," Shirley replies, pressing his lips together.

I sigh. "Poor Carl."

One or two seconds pass, before I add, "Though I still think it was a little crazy of him to get himself transferred to a submarine, of all possible places."

It's just an observation and not even an important one at that. Really, it hardly calls for a reply at all. Shirley, however, abruptly comes to a halt anyway. "You don't understand," he informs me gruffly.

Hm?

I try to catch his eye, but he turns his head away. His arms are folded in front of his chest again. His body is rigid.

I, meanwhile, am confused.

"It's alright. I only wanted –" I try to placate.

But Shirley doesn't let me finish. "You have no idea how Carl is feeling. What makes you think you have any right to judge his reasoning?" he snaps instead.

Instinctively, I take a step back. I didn't expect such… vehemence. "I'm not judging him," I defend myself.

"Aren't you?" Shirley retorts. "Well, it sure as hell sounded that way!" His voice is mocking. There's no kindness left in it.

"All I'm saying is that it's unusual for someone like Carl, who always loved nature above everything, to voluntarily spend so many years in a submarine," I clarify. I don't want to fight, but I can feel myself growing angry. I just don't understand why he is attacking me like this.

"Well, some people would also think it unusual that your dear Kenneth voluntarily spent so many years killing other people," Shirley shoots back immediately.

I gasp.

 _What_?

If I wasn't angry before, I certainly feel fury boiling up inside of me now. "Is that so? And you really expect me to believe you never killed anyone in all those years at the front?" I hiss at him.

In one distant part of my mind I am aware that that's quite a low blow. But he _did_ start it, didn't he?

Shirley, however, doesn't really seem to take any notice of what I said. With an impatient shake of his head, he just brushes my remark to the side. He refuses to look at me, instead keeping his eyes fixed on a point above my head. I have to suppress the impulse to get up on my tiptoes and force him to look me in the eye.

"What in the name of all that is holy do you _want_ from me, Shirley?" I demand instead. "Have you come here to fight? Is that it?"

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks immediately. He still doesn't look at me. His face is rigid and his voice, which was so full of confusing emotions just moments ago, suddenly sounds monotonous.

For a moment, I really consider sending him away. And from the way his eyes keep darting over to the road, I know that he'd like to leave. Why though, I have no idea.

Something is the matter. But what?

I take a deep breath, slowly let go of it again. Once, twice, a third time.

Something is the matter. And I'll be damned if I don't get to the root of this.

"Stay," I reply. Abruptly I turn and cross the lawn with firm steps. After a moment of hesitation, I can hear him follow.

We walk silently, but it's no comfortable silence. The air between us seems to tremble. But only when we have reached the farthest end of the garden, where the trees already extend their branches over the lawn, do I stop and turn back to face him.

Something is the matter. I don't know _what_ it is, but it concerns Carl.

"Why are you so touchy about Carl?" I ask. I try to keep my voice steady to prevent him from getting irritated again, but don't manage completely.

Shirley, however, remains straight-faced. "Why are you so touchy about Ken?" he replies, and _his_ voice is totally calm.

I can't help laugh, the question is so absurd. "Ken is my husband," I remind him. "That's completely –" I break off.

Different.

That's completely different.

But now Shirley is looking directly at me, for the very first time today, and though his face remains impassive, there's a storm in his eyes.

And slowly but surely, mere confusion about his behaviour gives way to a different, much more pronounced kind of confusion.

 _That's completely different._

Only… what if it isn't?

What if it really isn't so very different?

Abruptly, I turn, making space between us. In my mind, everything is whirling. For some reason, my heart is beating too fast.

Shirley and Carl? Carl and Shirley?

Is he trying to say that they… that they…

That they – _what_?

And more importantly… _how_?

He implied that they are to each other what Ken and I are to one another. But surely, that can't be right? They can't be like Ken and I, like Mum and Dad, like Jem and Faith. Because one is normal and the other is… strange.

Strange.

But they aren't the only ones who are strange, are they?

With a jolt, I turn back towards him. Shirley remains standing in the same spot, watching me. There's something guarded in his expression.

"Are you two… like Di and Mildred?" I ask haltingly. My eyes flit to him and away again. Now I'm the one who won't look at him.

"No," he answers and for a moment, I can see a cynical little smile on his lips. "We aren't at all like Di and Mildred."

I sigh, feeling frustrated. He misunderstood me deliberately, I'm fairly sure about that.

And he won't ever say it out loud, I know _that_ for certain. On the other hand, he seems to have decided that I must.

"What I am asking if… if you… well, if you – _love_ him," I manage. The word catches in my throat and I almost have to force it out.

"Would that be so bad?" Shirley replies. Outwardly, he is still totally calm, but something about him reminds me of a cat, still considering whether to pounce or not. And there's no other prey in this garden but me.

I turn my head away, look at the trees instead.

Would it be so bad?

I don't know.

It's strange. It's _more_ than strange.

For when he says that he and Carl are like Ken and I, then… then does that mean… does he mean to say…?

No.

I shake my head.

I don't want to think about it. Not about that.

"Since you mentioned them," Shirley remarks instead, "You don't seem to have much of a problem with Di and Mildred."

"That's different," I reply unwillingly.

A beat.

Then – "How so?" And it would be a harmless question but for the warning tone in his voice.

Cautiously, I turn my head, look back at him. "I don't know Mildred, do I? Carl, on the other hand, used to be one of my best friends. That's what makes it different," I try to explain. A second later I find myself wondering why I am the one having to explain myself.

For several moments, Shirley considers me silently. "That's bullshit, and you know it," he replies, voice suddenly sounding rough.

I turn away.

Might he be right?

Not completely. For when I learned about Di and Mildred, it was just one person I had to think differently about. Here, it's two. My brother and my childhood friend. That's a fact.

And besides… it's not unheard of, is it? Close friendships between women. One just has to look at Betty and Polly, who were inseparable friends for so many years, but never anything _but_ friends. Polly now has a perfectly normal marriage and I'm sure Betty would have had one as well but for –

I push the thought away.

Great female friendships are nothing unusual. And when nothing happens to remind me that there's _more_ , it's not very hard for me to think of Mildred as nothing but Di's very good friend and roommate, and not of the fact that there _is_ a _more_ and that it's strange.

I don't know if I can manage to think about Carl and Shirley likewise. Or if I have to forever see them differently now.

A deep breath before I turn to face Shirley again, taking two tentative steps towards him. "Why Carl?" I ask and it's an honest question. Maybe, if I only understand this a little better, maybe then…

Shirley's eyes dart over my face. It takes a moment, but then I think I see his shoulders relax a little. "Why Ken?" he asks back and I can't exactly call his voice kind, but it's not unkind either and I guess that's a start.

Why Ken?

Hundreds, thousands of reasons. But maybe this one is as good as any: "Because he doesn't make me feel small."

Shirley nods. Slowly, thoughtfully. For a moment I think he won't give an answer back, but then: "Because he never forgot me."

I'd like to say I don't know what he means. But that wouldn't be right, would it? He was always the quiet child. The overlooked child. The child for whom Susan was as much mother as our own mum.

And now Susan is dead. I wonder what that did to him. If it were anyone else, I might ask, but with Shirley, I don't dare. Surely not right now and probably not at all. I know he wouldn't talk to me about it and I can only hope he has someone else to talk to. (That would be Carl, wouldn't it?)

The forgotten son, then. And the person who never forgot about him. I have to admit that it makes sense somehow. At the same time, it's a little curious, considering that Carl himself became a phantom to us all. If Shirley was forgotten about in childhood, the same applies to Carl in the years since.

And that's when I realise it. "You never forgot him either, did you?" I ask tentatively.

A moment of hesitation before he answers, "No. Never."

I nod slowly. Even when everything else confuses me, I think I can understand this.

"I suppose this is the moment for me to say that you probably don't make Ken feel small either, just to make up the symmetry," Shirley remarks, "But you have to admit that the thought of Ken Ford ever feeling small is absolutely absurd."

My first impulse is to get defensive, but when I look at him more closely, I see a tiny glint in his eyes. One that I haven't seen in a very long time and that's when I know.

He is teasing me.

And I am so relieved at this rare glimpse of _old_ Shirley that I have to laugh. Maybe not _everything_ is different, after all?

Shirley allows a little smile and for the first time today, it feels as if we have managed to forge a connection. Tentative maybe, and brittle, and ready to break at a moment's notice, but perhaps it could be a start?

Just don't take a wrong step now.

"What did you do in Scotland?" I enquire because it feels like an inoffensive subject. I take great care to keep my voice light and cheerful.

"We hiked a lot. Camped out in the Highlands," Shirley answers quite willingly.

I click my tongue. "In this weather? You were lucky not to freeze to death out in the cold," I remark drily.

For the fraction of a second, Shirley's eyebrow rises, and I can't help wondering…

But no. I resolved not to think about that.

"I hope you were dressed warmly at least," I add instead.

His second eyebrow rises as well.

Don't. Think. About. It.

"How did you pull it off anyway? You as an officer and him… what is he? Leading Seaman?" I quickly ask.

"The war is over. It's easier to move around dressed in mufti," Shirley answers matter-of-factly. At least his eyebrows are down again.

"But as long as you're still part of the military, you're not allowed to be in public sans uniform," I point out.

Shirley shrugs, as if this is the least of his worries. Perhaps it truly is.

"At risk of you starting to growl at me again," I continue, "It must have been quite the adjustment for Carl. Down there under the sea in one of these devil's contraptions for ages and then suddenly up in the Highlands, surrounded by nature. Though I can still picture him there much more readily than in a submarine."

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Shirley, quite prepared for him to get angry again, but instead he just sighs. He looks downtrodden all of a sudden and my first impulse is to reach out a hand to comfort him, but I stop myself just in time.

No touching.

(And I would wonder if that rule applies to Carl as well, but I'm not thinking about this after all.)

"You aren't wrong," Shirley suddenly concedes. "He doesn't belong into a submarine. Only, he's there for exactly that reason. He somehow got it into his head that, if he manages to confine the war to a single place, the rest of the world and his memories of it will remain untouched. So, he searched for the most hellish place on earth and decided to spend the war there. He hoped that if he spent the war solely in that submarine, he would be able _leave_ it there at the end. Leave the war, I mean. And that the outside world would still be beautiful."

"Did it work?" I ask softly.

Shirley doesn't answer. Instead, he looks at me and there's something in his eyes that I seldom see, because he seldom _allows_ anyone to see it. Pain for the pain of another.

 _That's completely different._

Well… maybe not _completely_ different.

"What are you going to do? Once the Navy gives him up, I mean?" I ask. It's an attempt at distracting him from his pain. I don't want him to hurt.

Shirley raises his shoulders, keeps them there. "We always imagined that we'd ultimately settle in Europe after the war. Maybe in France. I help to rebuild the towns and villages and Carl makes sure that they're _alive_ ," he explains. In a jerking motion, his shoulders fall down again.

"That sounds… lovely," I reply cautiously.

He nods slowly. "Yes, maybe. But I don't know if it will ever be real. There are not many places where we are… well, safe."

 _Safe_?

For a moment, the word confuses me, but then I realise. It's forbidden, isn't it? Him and Carl. Not just strange but _illegal_. There are laws against it.

"And while we're talking about it," Shirley adds, voice firmer now, "I ask you to keep this between us. And by that, I mean that you may not tell anyone about it. _No one_. Not even Ken."

Hm? And what's that's supposed to mean now?

"What do you think Ken would do?" I ask, more than a little piqued.

"I don't know what he would do. He's your husband, but I hardly know him," Shirley answers calmly. "But I have a pretty good idea what he _could_ do. He's Lieutenant Colonel and Carl and I still in uniform. If he or anyone else were to give the Army or Navy a hint… I'm not keen to experience that."

Right. The law.

With some effort I push down the indignation I felt in my husband's stead. Instead, I ask, "What would happen?"

A pause. "Well," Shirley remarks and suddenly, there's a mirthless smile on his lips, "Theoretically, they can shoot you for it. They don't do that very often though. Once we're out of uniform, we're looking at a cushy life in prison. Of the kind where you don't have to wonder about what you're going to do once you are released, because release is not on the cards."

And while he speaks, two unbidden images appear in front of my eyes.

A man, blindfolded, tied to a tree, somewhere next to a railway line in France. Silent shots. Scarborough Fair. A dead man.

Figures, gaunt and ill, hair matted, faces tired, eyes wary. A gush of red. An abyss of blue. Dead figures.

I shiver. Instinctively, I put my arms around myself, but it's not the kind of cold that you can warm yourself against. It's inner cold. It's _fear_.

Seconds later, there is a heavy weight on my shoulders. I look up, recognise Shirley's coat. It shouldn't help against this kind of inner cold and yet somehow, it still does.

The words have left my lips before I knew I was going to say them. "I won't tell anyone. Not Ken, or anyone else. I mean, I'm not saying that all this isn't… unusual. And I'm not saying I understand it either, because I'm not sure if I _do_ understand it. But… I want you to be safe. Both of you."

And happy. That, too, I suppose.

The promise of a smile appears on Shirley's lips. "I want us to be safe as well," he replies. "And so does Carl."

I nod slowly. Then, suddenly, a new thought. "Where is Carl, by the way? I mean, if you were in Scotland together…"

"He's waiting down the road for me," Shirley answers. A moment of hesitation before he adds: "I wasn't sure if it was… smart to bring him here."

And once more I am speaking without considering the words. "Bring him here?" I ask.

Shirley considers me with an alert expression. "Are you sure?" he wants to know.

I take a deep breath.

No, I am not sure.

But I believe it would be good to see him. And sometimes, believing isn't the worst thing one can do.

So, I nod.

Shirley, however, doesn't move. Still, his eyes flit over my face. Then, as if with great effort, he extends a hand and lays it on my arm.

"You wouldn't say anything to hurt him?" he asks. And though it's Carl he means, I've also never seen Shirley as… vulnerable as he is in this moment.

The answer is an easy one. All of this might be strange and confusing and yes, difficult as well. And I already know it will be much easier for me not to remember this day, and the awareness it brought, all too often. But I would never want anyone to hurt the two of them.

"Promise."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The sunshine of your smile' from 1913 (lyrics by Leonard Cooke, music by Lilian Ray)._

* * *

 _With many thanks to_ elizasky _, who was not only a tremendous help to me when crafting this chapter but also does a far better job of writing Carl and Shirley than I ever could. Though while I could never hope to match her portrayal of them, here's hoping I didn't make a complete mess of things either!_

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
I apologise for last chapter's bleakness. I promise things are looking up from now on!  
One of my main goals for last chapter was indeed to show that Rilla's trauma didn't just magically disappear when she operated on Davis. She did it because it needed to be done and she did it well. But there's no easy, snap-your-fingers cure for the kind of trauma she has and that was important for me to show. (Though you likely know all about it yourself. I'm so very sorry to hear about your own struggles! It makes things hard that shouldn't be and I know how wretched it can leave you feeling.)  
This story is truly winding to a close by now - just seven more chapters to go after this one. But I'm already busy planning my next piece, so I won't be gone for long. It will be a very different story from this one, but I hope it will be fun on its own merits :)._


	75. Streets are paved with gold

_March 13_ _th_ _, 1919  
London, England_

 **Streets are paved with gold**

Slowly, I let my gaze follow the imposing pillars upwards. Someone – maybe Mildred? – theorised that the British Museum is a visual implantation of the British claim to be rulers of most of the world, and if that's correct, they certainly built a suitable home for that particular claim. Wide pillars rise up along an imposing façade and one can't help but feel tiny next to it all.

Craning back my neck, I look up to the end of one of the pillars and maybe that's why I only notice Persis when she throws both arms around my neck. That it _is_ Persis, I know because my sight is blocked by an abundance of white cotton and her locks tickle my face.

I return her hug without hesitation and it takes some moments until she steps back, and I can see anything but white cloth again.

"Hello Persis," I greet with an amused little smile.

"Hello," she returns cheerily. Her eyes dart over my face and a smile blooms on her lips. "It's good to see you!" she declares with certain conviction.

"And you," I agree, for it really is. I haven't seen her since last summer – how much has _happened_ since then! – and while our friendship blossomed under unusual circumstances in the months before, there's no doubt that I've missed her.

"Well, naturally," Persis agrees, quite as if everyone would be delighted at her presence. Maybe there's even some truth to it.

With a benevolent shake of my head, I point towards the museum's entrance. "Shall we?"

"If we really _have_ to," Persis mutters theatrically, but starts moving towards the imposing portal.

As we enter through wide double doors, however, she obviously can't help enquiring, " _Why_ , exactly, are we here again?"

"Because I've never been here before," I reply.

Persis opens her mouths, probably to argue, then frowns and closes it again.

"Compelling logic isn't it?" I ask with a laugh.

Persis pulls a face, but there's a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth that she obviously suppresses only with some effort. I link my arm through hers and pull her towards the cloakroom, where I hand over my coat to a young woman.

Turning to Persis, I intend to take her coat and hand it over as well – when I stop in my tracks. Incredulous, I stare at her.

" _What_?" she asks, clearly irritated, as she moves past me and gives her coat to the woman herself. Somehow though, I have a feeling that she knows exactly what's the matter.

"Pink," I manage and point a finger at her uniform. At her _light pink_ uniform.

Persis throws back her head. "Yes. Pink," she confirms. "Is that a problem?"

Probably not. A pink uniform is probably just as useful as the blue VAD uniform with the red cross emblem that she wore in France or the grey uniform with the black brassard of the St. John's Ambulance Service that she must have worn back in Canada. Whether blue or grey or pink probably doesn't make much of a difference and yet… _pink_?

The mere thought of there being pink uniforms for nurses is absolutely absurd and yet, Persis is clad, without a doubt, in a uniform of a light pink colour, with a white collar and white cuffs, a type of white cummerbund in lieu of a belt and an equally white apron that almost looks –

"Is that apron _transparent_?" I ask incredulously. Without thinking, I reach out a hand and touch the cloth of her aprons and yes, it's light and partly transparent and surely not practical enough for a nurse's daily wear.

"Yes, it is," Persis admits and makes an almost pained face. "And before you ask, no, I don't know whose brilliant idea that was."

"Certainly not the War Ministry's," I point out. I let go of her apron and instead tug at her veil which, as I only just notice, is not the handkerchief veil of the VAD but the flared, nun-like army cap usually reserved for us trained nurses. To placate the nurses' feelings, VADs were forbidden from wearing this style of veil a while ago.

Persis raises both eyebrows. "You don't _say_?" she retorts sarcastically, and I suppose it's really quite obvious that pink uniform and transparent aprons and army caps for VADs weren't thought up by the War Ministry. She tries to appear aloof, but I can see her fighting a smile.

"Come on," I therefore ask her peaceably as we link arms again. "Let's walk for a bit and while we do so, you can tell me about that curious hospital of yours."

She allows me to pull her along willingly, up some steps and through a high door into the first exhibition room. In there, wooden cabinets with glass doors line the walls, while the middle of the room is taken up by sizable display cases. The intricately worked coffered ceiling is high above our heads. About half-way up the walls there's a gallery running the expanse of the room. Tall windows allow a pale March sun to shine through.

"The _Perkins Bull Hospital for Convalescent Canadian Officers_. That's what the hospital is called," Persis reports while we slowly stroll through the room. "It's a bit to the south, in the direction of Wimbledon, and part of a group of small mansions basically enclosed by Putney Heath."

I nod. I've written the name of that hospital on enough letters already to recognise it.

"It's a small hospital, isn't it?" I ask.

"32 beds for convalescing Canadian officers," Persis confirms. "As far as the personnel goes, there's a matron, an assistant matron and some VADs. We obviously only get the patients once they're over the worst of it."

She must be right about that. A real hospital, regardless of size, would never be staffed only by two trained nurses and a couple of VADs. It's apparent then, that this is little more than a convalescing home where the patients are sent to gather some more strength after having mostly recovered.

"The entire thing is financed by the Perkins Bulls, a Canadian family living here in London. Their daughter is officially named as the commandant of the hospitals and I suspect we have her to thank for the pink uniforms," Persis adds and shrugs. "Anyway, the Perkin Bulls opened their home to Canadian officers on leave back when the war started and at some point, they decided to turn one of the neighbouring houses into a small hospital and offer it to the Canadian government as a convalescent home for officers. Additionally, they still regularly organise dinners and dances in their own home."

"Sounds nice," I remark while studying a cabinet full of stuffed birds.

"It is," nods Persis. "There's no easier work to be had. I work six half-days a week and already am one of the VADs with the highest workload. The other ones are mostly society girls from Toronto. I know many of them from before the war. Most of them never served in a real hospital. They… they don't know much about how life looks in a proper hospital." She pressed her lips together for a moment and I know she's thinking about her time in France.

I touch her arm in comfort and she attempts a smile for my benefit. "If you know the other VADs there, it was quite lucky you were sent there of all places," I remark and try not to be distracted by the fact that the cabinet behind Persis holds something that looks suspiciously like a mummy.

Not quite succeeding, it takes me a moment to notice the shadow passing over Persis's face. Her brow is furrowed deeply.

So, I turn my back to the mummy and instead put an arm around Persis's shoulders. "What is it?" I ask carefully as we slowly walk through the room.

Persis sighs heavily. "Would you think badly of me if I told you that I facilitated my own transfer to this hospital?" she asks, eyeing me from the side.

"Certainly not," I am quick to assure and steer her around a glass case holding an intricate model of the solar system.

Persis's eyes remain sceptical, but she continues nevertheless, "I heard that one of their VADs was going to marry and so I pulled a couple of strings and took her place. I know I should have finished my placement in Rouen but…" She trails off.

"But you needed a break," I finish for her.

Now she looks surprised and I have to smile. "Do you think I didn't notice? Your letters from Rouen sounded pretty downcast," I explain.

"I… I wasn't aware of it being that obvious," Persis replies after a beat.

I raise my shoulders in a shrug. "At least I noticed. And do you know what else I noticed?" I ask, only to answer my own question immediately, "That you waited for the war and the worst of the flu to be over before you got yourself transferred."

Persis inclines her head slightly, part consent and part denial. "I suppose so," she agrees slowly.

"But?" I prompt, for somehow, it's quite obvious that there's a but there.

For several seconds, Persis remains silent. I didn't pay attention to where we walked and as we now pass through another door, we find ourselves out in the open, in a courtyard surrounded by tall buildings on all four sides. In the middle of it, there's another building, round and crowned by a cupola.

"But it still feels like shirking my duty," Persis finally admits and looks down at her hands, frowning.

Before I start on getting that nonsense out of her head, I hurry both of us through the courtyard and toward the opposite building. The sun may be shining, but without a coat, it's still quite cool at the beginning of March.

As we cross the courtyard, we pass by the curious round building. 'Reading Room' a discreet sign informs me, and I would be lying if I said that part of me didn't want to go and inspect it a little closer. I didn't inherit my mother's talent with words and I hardly ever got a chance to read these past few years, but I am familiar with the magic of a good book nevertheless, and I can only guess at which treasures this reading room might contain.

But regardless of how the books might be calling to me, for now, Persis is more important. And so, after we have entered the building, I shuffle her over to a secluded corner, take both her shoulders and turn her around to me. She can't help but look at me.

"Alright, you'll listen to me now," I demand. There's a stubborn glint in her eyes but after a moment, she nods slightly.

Only then do I continue, "We don't have to explain to each other how bloody hard it can be to be a nurse. That's why we won't talk about that. But I do want to ask you how many flu patients you cared for last year."

For a second or two, Persis stares at me, quite incredulous. "I don't know," she finally answers.

"Hundreds? Thousands?" I suggest. She shrugs, then slowly nods her head, then shrugs again. But she has already proven my point.

Too many to count.

"There you go," I nod. "I don't know anyone who spent as much time caring for flu cases as you did. I mean, when did they first send you to a flu ward? In June?"

I wait for her to confirm this with a nod. "That's more than six months," I point out. "I was lucky only to have had flu patients to care for, for about a month and that was quite long enough as far as I am concerned. I don't think I've ever felt so _helpless_ in my entire life." The thought of men with blue faces and bleeding noses and rattling breaths still makes me shiver.

Persis takes a deep breath. I watch her attentively. Behind her eyes, thoughts flit to and fro. Another deep breath before she starts talking, slowly at first and then, ever faster. "They all… died. One after the other. We couldn't… do anything. Nothing! They died and died and _died_ and… and what did we _do_? Cold leg compresses and hot water bottles. As if that changed anything! They begged us to help them and we were completely powerless. Sometimes, I thought it would never end. That they would die, one after the other, until there was no one left on this earth but me."

She takes shuddering breath. "And not one word from Ken. For weeks, there was total silence. I knew he was feeling wretched and there was no way to get to him. And the entire time, I kept asking myself what he'd do if you didn't pull through… and then came the message about Mum being ill. _Mum_! Ill with that awful flu. And I was standing there in my ward, watching all these dying men and imagined Mum to be the same. How she would get weaker and weaker and how her face would turn blue, only slightly at first and then ever darker, until, one day, she wouldn't be able to breathe anymore…" Abruptly, she breaks off.

Her eyes are dry, but there's something wild, even tortured in her gaze that is as hard to bear. And that's why it's quite by instinct that my hands move from her shoulders to her back as I pull her into a hug. Persis rests her forehead against my shoulder and I can feel her fight to get her breathing back under control.

It takes several minutes – and more than one glare towards too curious museum visitors watching us – before Persis finally raises her head again and takes a step back.

"Thanks. I suppose I needed that," she remarks and grimaces slightly.

I shake my head. "No need to thank me," I am quick to deflect. "You've earned it, just as you've earned to it get the opportunity for some rest after six months of flu, flu, _flu_. It's perfectly natural that you needed to get out of there at some point. That certainly doesn't mean you were shirking your duties. You did more than you needed to do."

"Says the woman who got herself transferred to Germany the moment she herself was recovered from the flu," Persis remarks laconically and raises one eyebrow.

At this, I have to laugh. "Be assured that it wasn't a sense of duty that made me go to Germany. I wanted to see Ken, plain and simple. It was, if you will, pure egoism," I clarify. "For if it _had_ been a sense of duty, I would have allowed myself to fully recover before taking on a suitable posting somewhere here in England instead of getting unsuspecting people to allow me into the occupation zone only partly recovered. What a grand idea it was is quite apparent from how it turned out, isn't it? I didn't just spend three weeks in hospital for nothing."

"But you're well again, aren't you?" Persis makes sure.

"I'm fine," I assure. "I just needed to catch up on sleep and get some rest. I'm really feeling well again." I link my arm through hers and together, we stroll through this new exhibition room. It is filled with antique vases and statues and reliefs.

Persis watches me from the side, a little sceptical still, but the result of her muster seems to satisfy her. "Are you going to take up another posting soon?" she asks.

I shake my head no. "They did release me from hospital, but the good doctors seemed to be of the opinion that I'm not yet up to the task of doing proper nursing. That's why, officially, I am still diagnosed with debility and therefore, on convalescent leave," I explain.

"And that's why you're here," Persis nods, understanding. "Where do you live? In a hotel?"

"Hotels are only for those travelling through. We have two rest homes for Canadian nurses in London, meant for those staying a longer time. There's one in Chelsea, on Cheyne Place, and another one in Knightbridge, in Ennismore Gardens, just south of Kensington Park. That's where I'm staying," I inform her.

"Is it a good place to stay?" Persis wants to know.

In front of my inner eye, Moncorvo House appears, the mansion of a British aristocrat which they turned into our rest home sometime during the war. It's a spacious brick building with an elaborate interior decor and quite the most elegant place I've ever lived in.

"It's tolerable," I reply and raise both eyebrows. Persis laughs.

"What happens once your convalescent leave is over?" she asks.

"Oh, well," I answer while leaning down to inspect one of the reliefs more closely. "I'll probably get discharged from the army before that happens. They said I won't be fit enough for work for another two months at least, and so they decided to let me go. I'm not an invalid or anything, so I should get a general demob, but they didn't seem to see much reason in keeping me here when they're in the process of sending people home anyway. That's why I'm only whiling away my time until I get my marching orders. And then, it's back home for me."

A beat, before Persis makes a curious little sound. A quick glance to the side tells me that her eyebrows have knotted together again. Something seems to bother her, but I don't want to push her, so I turn towards a statue of an armless woman instead.

"Quite fascinating to think how old all of this is, don't you think? Back in the other room, they had a mummy and this statue dates back to antique Greece," I remark pensively as I peer down at the informative plaque.

"Hm?" Persis sounds clearly distracted.

"Statue. Old. Impressive," I therefore break it down for her and suppress a smile.

She blinks at me, then nods slowly. "Yes, I suppose so," she agrees. "But all this isn't half as impressive in a museum as it is over in Egypt or Greece. The atmosphere is completely different there."

"Which isn't at all a snobbish thing to say," I point out with a soft laugh.

"I am no snob," Persis complains immediately.

Instead of answering, I just raise both eyebrows and pointedly look from her to the statue and back again.

Persis just shrugs impatiently. "Oh, alright. Maybe. Doesn't matter," she retorts. "Much more important… when you're saying 'home' – does that mean Glen?" The look in her eyes is suddenly very alert.

Aha. So that's where the shoe pinches.

"We decided to live in Toronto," I am quick to calm her and it's almost palpable how the tension leaves her with one long breath.

She was afraid of me kidnapping her brother. That much is obvious.

"And what about you? When are they allowing you to go back?" I ask kindly.

"Probably not before summer," she answers, now quite readily. "My current contract won't finish for a while yet. But I promised Selina to try and be back home in June so that we can all christen my future godson!" A smile brightens her face and it feels like a ray of sunshine after a long spell of rain.

I can't help a look of surprise. "Selina has a son?" I ask.

Persis nods eagerly. "He was born late last year," she explains. "I thought you knew."

I shake my head. "No. Who would have told me anyway?"

And even while I speak the words, I realise that her answer might as well be 'Ken' and I don't know how I'd feel about that.

"I thought Nan might have," Persis answers instead.

Abruptly, I stop and stare at her.

 _Nan_?

"Because of the children's clothes," Persis adds, not really explaining anything.

My confusion must be apparent, because she starts giggling suddenly. "So, you didn't know that either?" she asks, quite superfluously.

My slightly irritated glance is only cause for further mirth though and so it takes a moment for her to take pity on me and explain, "From what I gather, Nan and Selina met at my parents' at some point and Selina admired your niece's dress. She was very impressed to learn that Nan had designed and sewn it herself. So that's why Nan gave her some pieces for her son and those were admired by all and sundry as well. More and more young mothers from Toronto ended up coming to Nan and asked her to make clothes for their children as well. And that's why they're now considering opening their own business."

"One moment," I interject. "Who are 'they'?"

"Nan and Selina, of course," Persis replies in a manner that suggests my question to have been quite stupid. "Selina is good with numbers and she knows everyone and their aunt, so she can easily find investors and get the word out. And Nan's task is to design the clothes and oversee their production. She is completely overwhelmed with all the sewing already, which is why they are considering hiring two or three seamstresses. The idea is to employ war widows to help support them. Quite a good thought, don't you think?"

She looks at me for confirmation, but it takes a moment for me to have gathered my thoughts enough to nod. "And all of this happened… when?" I ask, feeling a little helpless.

"In the past two or three months," Persis answers blithely. "And you _really_ didn't know about it?" She peers at me, a little sceptical.

I shake my head mutely.

Persis shrugs and pulls me around an elaborately carved block of stone. "Oh, well, maybe it's understandable," she remarks. "I heard about it from Selina but perhaps Nan wants to keep quiet about it until she is sure that it's going to work out. I mean, who even knew she was a talented seamstress? _I_ didn't. I always thought she'd turn out to be Canada's answer to Jane Austen or something."

We all thought that. But her stories died when Jerry did.

Once more, I feel a curious glance from the side. "It's a bit strange that both your sisters are _working women_ now while you, with all your training in nursing, will become a traditional wife after all. I mean, who would have thought things would turn out like that?" she asks, raising both eyebrows high.

I turn my head away, looking at a painted vase without seeing much.

Yes. Who would have thought?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' from 1912 (lyrics and music by Jack Judge)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Actually, Carl's war, from what little we see of it, might have been the most tragic. He voluntarily entered the most hellish place he could think of, in a vain hope to confine the war - only to find that it all backfired completely on him. Shirley has the no-touching rule, but in his own way, Carl is as traumatised. Those two have a lot to work through, so it's good they have each other at least.  
You're right about Rilla not understanding, but trying to make an effort. For them time being, she concentrates on the fact that she cares for Shirley and Carl individually. Any potential understanding of their true situation (and that of Di and Mildred) has to come later. She has to process a lot of information in a very short time, all the while having to stop Shirley from running away. Her reaction isn't ideal, but it's the best she can do under the circumstances.  
I'm glad the dynamic between Rilla and Shirley rang true for you. I always thought those two should have been closer than RV and RoI show them to be and I tried to show a bit of that here (though hindered by war). And I'm definitely happy that the deep love Shirley has for Carl was evident. After all, that was what this last chapter was all about!_


	76. Of a baby upon their knees

_March 19_ _th_ _, 1919  
London, England_

 **Of a baby upon their knees**

For a moment, I let my gaze drift over my surroundings, but I don't recognise any of the people, so I turn back to my book.

I have to admit that it feels glorious to have _time_ again. Ever since I came to Europe, I was either too tired or too busy to read anything but letters, but now I'm already on my fourth book in almost as many weeks. Sleep, too, was a rare commodity these past years and I supremely enjoy just being able to go to sleep when I'm tired. I'm much more awake than I was back in Buxton, but I still go to bed early, sleep in in the morning and don't decline a good nap in between either, when the opportunity presents itself.

Whenever I'm not sleeping or reading, I use my time to finally get to know London. Often, I just stroll through the streets for hours and wait to see where my feet end up carrying me. If the weather insists on being English, I make good use of the fact that the rest home is just a couple of hundred yards from three major museums – _Victoria & Albert_, _Science_ and _Natural History_. Sometimes, I am accompanied by other nurses staying in Moncorvo House, and at other times, Persis comes up from Putney Heath, but I also don't mind being on my own some days.

My fingers idly turn another page whilst I raise my head to quickly survey my surroundings again. I just want to turn back to the book, when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure at the other end of the street raise an arm and wave. Narrowing my eyes, a little, I take a closer look and yes – it's Polly.

That I didn't recognise her immediately might be down to the fact that I have only ever seen her in uniform or else that we haven't seen each other for – how long? – far too long. But as she hurries towards me now, pushing a pram with one hand and holding on to her hat with the either, there's no doubt about it. It is Polly.

Snapping shut my book, I get up from the bench just as Polly reaches me. She lets go of pram and hat, her fingers closing around my upper arms instead. For some seconds, she keeps me at arm's length and surveys me with a critical eye. Then I am pulled into a hug and for one fleeing second, it might have been 1916 again, if so much had not happened since then.

"Hello Polly," I greet with a smile once she releases me again.

"Hello, hello," she replies cheerfully. "I would like to say that you haven't changed at all, but what wouldn't be true, so I'm just going to say that it's good to see you."

Before I even have a chance to reply, there is a sound from the pram – not very loud, but distinctly threatening. The volume is obviously still increasable.

Polly rolls her eyes. "She's been grizzly all day," she informs me. "No one ever tells you how complicated it is to ride a train with a child in tow."

"I really could have come to see you instead," I remark while I watch her lean over the pram and take up the baby with practiced ease. The snuffling sounds subside immediately. Instead, large round eyes fasten onto my face and regard me with obvious distrust.

Polly just waves my remark aside. "Ah, not at all! You were released from hospital less than two weeks ago, after all. You shouldn't be travelling yet, and certainly not on your own. And you know me – any excuse to come to London is a good excuse, as far as I am concerned." Her conspiratorial smile has me smiling as well.

Deftly, Polly transfers the baby from one arm to the other while she continues talking, "And besides, if you had come to visit me, we would have sat on an over-stuffed couch and drank weak tea from that revolting flowered tea set, with Roland's awful aunt breathing down our necks. We prefer it this way, don't we, Lizzie?" The last with a tender gaze at the baby who, however, just continues to look markedly sceptical.

"Shall we walk a little?" Polly suggest in my direction, nodding towards the park to our left.

"Sure, alright," I quickly acquiesce, even though I'm not entirely sure she even expected an answer. If anything, life as a wife and mother obviously made her more forceful.

Little Lizzie seems to be an equally forceful type, for she counters her mother's attempts to put her back into the pram with an alarming howl. Polly sighs heavily but keeps holding her in her arms instead, leaving me to push the empty pram.

"How is Roland?" I ask while we stroll along the street. I've never met her husband, but Polly wrote about him often enough, that it feels almost as if I know him anyway.

"Fine, fine. He's still in Boulogne and therefore, Lizzie and I are still with awful Aunt Pomeline," Polly replies and pulls a face.

Aunt Pomeline, I am also very familiar with, from her letters. Because Roland was transferred to France a short while after their wedding, Polly was sent to live with his relatives somewhere in the Cotswolds. Seeing as spinster aunt Pomeline apparently doesn't lack for space, it was decided amongst said relatives that she was to accommodate the new niece – much to the displeasure of not only Polly but of Aunt Pomeline herself.

"How did Aunt Pomeline acquire her name, by the way?" I ask spontaneously. "I wonder about it whenever you mention her in a letter but keep forgetting to ask."

"Oh. That." Polly laughs gleefully. "Well, according to family lore, her mother had constant cravings for apples during the pregnancy. Thus, the name Pomeline was chosen, from the French for apple. Which is, naturally, reason enough for Aunt Pomeline to despise her own name."

Quizzically, I raise an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

Polly's smirk widens. "Because of Eve and the snake and the apple, of course! She's that bigoted, she thinks apples are _depraved_. And nothing makes her more livid than people calling her by her name," she explains.

"Which is why you delight in doing so," I realise.

"At least twenty times a day," confirms Polly, clearly pleased. "And every time, she hisses like a cat! It delights us to hear her hiss, doesn't it, Lizzie?" She leans forward a little to look at the baby in her arms, but Lizzie's expression remains decidedly unimpressed.

Shaking my head slightly, I watch them, quite amused. "How come Aunt Pomeline still offers you continued accommodation?" I ask.

"Well," Polly wrinkles her nose. "That's not too complicated, actually. She's keen on the money. She pinches almost my entire monthly separation allowance paid by the army. And ever since Lizzie's birth, she keeps needling me every day, insisting that it's not enough anymore because I need for _soap_ to do the washing now. Greedy old hag!"

"Polly! You can't say something like that!" I chide her but can't keep from laughing myself.

But Polly just shrugs and looks every bit as unimpressed as her daughter does. "It's not forbidden if it's the truth," she argues and really, what am I supposed to say to that?

"How much longer will you be wasting Aunt Pomeline's soap?" I ask instead.

My answer is a terrifying grimace from Polly and a disapproving frown from Lizzie. "There was a moment when it looked as if Roland was coming home shortly. They had orders to evacuate all patients at the beginning of March and we thought he'd come back soon after. Three days later, however, they received new orders to keep the hospital open for patients with venereal diseases. Roland doesn't expect to make it to England before May or June. And until then, Lizzie and I continue to rely on Aunt Pomeline's hospitality," Polly explains. She dandles Lizzie, though not to the improvement of the baby's mood.

"And once he's back? Do you already know what you'll do then? Go back to Canada?" I ask.

It still feels strange to talk about it. For so long, we never really dared to think of going home, for fear of somehow jinxing it. And now, so many months after the armistice, it's finally starting to become real. Shirley is currently on a ship crossing the Atlantic and will be _home_ in just a few short days. He's the first of us to return and for some reason, only news about his departure was enough to finally feel it make real. We're allowed to go home.

Naturally, we won't all be home as quickly as Shirley. Neither Jem nor Persis expect their respective hospitals to close down before summer and according to Shirley, the Navy doesn't seem interested in letting Carl leave his underwater grave any earlier either. As for Fred, who returned to his desk job in January after having recovered from his illness (and whom I still regularly forget to count as one of the extended family), Una isn't yet expecting him back this spring either.

And then, then there are those who will return no more. Two wooden crosses, somewhere in France.

"I don't know yet if we're going back to Canada," Polly interrupts my thoughts.

Surprised, I look at her, while at the same time pushing the thought of wooden crosses back into the corner of my mind where they continue to endure. "So, you want to stay here?" I ask.

Polly shrugs her shoulders, though that doesn't seem to be all that easy with a disgruntled baby in her arms. "Maybe. Roland was born in England, and he grew up here as well. He only came to Canada with his parents when he fifteen or so," Polly replies. "His sister is married and living in the US, and his parents have been thinking about coming back for a while now. They both spent the majority of their lives in England, their families live here… if they move back, it makes sense for us to stay here as well."

"What about your parents?" I carefully enquire. Polly is their only child, after all.

Another shrug from her. "We haven't yet discussed this in any detail," she admits. "Of course, I would miss them and truth to be told, I want Lizzie to grown up with both sets of grandparents present, so it would be quite sad if there was an ocean between us. On the other hand, my mother has dropped some hints about always wanting to see the motherland and about how it's supposed to be very nice to live there, so… who knows? Maybe we'll all end up living here. That would be nice, wouldn't it, Lizzie?"

But apparently, even the thought of growing up with all four grandparents around isn't enough to elicit more than a frown and a couple of spit bubbles from Lizzie.

Turning from the child to Polly, I regard her thoughtfully. "And how does this make _you_ feel?" I want to know.

"It's fine," answers Polly and her voice is sincere. "I like England and even though I wouldn't mind having an ocean between Aunt Pomeline and me, I have to admit that the rest of Roland's family isn't too bad. His grandmother is lovely, and he has a few cousins who have small children as well, so that works out quite nicely. Not that I would complain if I could convince you to settle here as well. What would Officer say to that, what do you think?"

She regards me with a speculative glance and I have to laugh. "Oh, if I really wanted to stay here, I don't think Ken would stand in the way," I answer. "But I don't want to."

Judging from their expressions, both Polly and the baby are quite disappointed with me. "How will your future look then?" Polly still deigns to ask.

"For now, I'm just waiting for someone to tell me which ship to board. They told me to expect orders sometime in April," I answer willingly. "Ken's still in France. His unit will be shipped to England within the next couple of days, but he doesn't know when it's time for them to return home yet. It might end up being May."

For a moment, confusion registers on Polly's face. "I thought they are trying to send the family's home together with the soldier husbands," she remarks with a frown.

But before I can explain, her forehead turns smooth again and confusion gives way to understanding. "Wait. You aren't telling me that your marriage is _still_ a big secret, are you?" she wants to know.

"Our families know," I defend myself. "But there's no use letting the army know about it, is there?"

Polly laughs softly. "Indeed. And you have no idea how jealous I am that you managed to pull that off!" she admits, but there's no bitterness behind the words.

I raise my shoulders, because how can I reply to that? Polly, meanwhile, already continues, "And you escaped the cliché of the nurse marrying a doctor, too! Though if I remember correctly, there was a candidate, wasn't there? Do we know what became of him?"

There's an amused glint in her eyes. The baby produces yet more spit bubbles.

"Zachary?" I ask, without reacting to her teasing. "He's alright. I'm not in contact with him anymore, but Maud, a former colleague of both of us, has once again been stationed with him in a same hospital in France a while ago. It might please you to hear that I didn't irreparably break his heart, after all. He found himself a French girl who seems more willing to plant blueberry shrubs with him."

I attempt to keep this matter-of-factly, but Polly, familiar with the tale, starts laughing whole-heartedly. "Let's hope he does a better job at proposing to her," she remarks between laughs.

"It would certainly be advisable not to mention his late sister quite in that moment," I agree and can't keep a smile from my own lips either. Now, almost two years later, I can see involuntary humour of that proposal – though I do feel sorry about his sister, of course.

Rosie was her name, wasn't it?

Which reminds me…

"Did I mention in my letters how the… my sister's flatmate acquired a child?" I ask Polly.

Polly regards me with a teasing look and I have a feeling even the baby is making its spit bubbles a little more mockingly as well. "You don't _acquire_ a child, my dear Rilla," Polly informs me gleefully. "I thought it was Officer's job to, well… _introduce_ you to the concept, but I can explain it to you again if you'd like?"

"No, thanks," I retort with a roll of my eyes, though that only earns me a grin from her.

"And anyway, Mildred _did_ acquire a child," I insist. "She's unmarried, so there's really no way for her to have a child the _normal_ way."

With a deft movement, Polly juggles Lizzie around so that the baby's left ear is pressed to Polly's chest. Covering the right ear with one hand, she leans closer to me and whispers conspiratorially, "I hate to be the one to take away your innocence, but a marriage certificate is no physical prerequisite for reproductive activities, if you know what I mean…"

When I lightly hit her shoulder, she evades me with a laugh. "Aunt Rilla is displeased with us," she informs her daughter, who looks quite displeased herself, even when she's permitted to hear again.

"Do you want to hear about it or not?" I ask, markedly snippy, though I have to fight a smile of my own.

"Sure, out with it," Polly answers easily and transfers Lizzie to her other arm.

"Alright, so Mildred, who is Di's… flatmate, had an older sister who got married before the war," I explain. "Their upbringing was quite unusual, by all accounts. The father is a painter, the mother was politically active. She seemed to have been the driving force in the family as well, and Mildred inherited her interested in social and political matters. The sister didn't though, or at least she got married very traditionally. Rosa, her daughter, was born four years ago."

"So far, so good," interjects Polly, earning herself a piqued glance at the interruption.

"Little Rosa's father was killed in Flanders in 1915 and his parents were victims of the Halifax explosion," I continue. "And seeing as both Rosa's mother and Mildred's mother died of the flu last month, Rosa was basically dropped on Mildred's doorstep. Apparently, neither her widowed grandfather nor the unmarried brothers of her father are considered qualified to care for a child."

"Good gracious!" murmurs Polly. "The poor child!" She doesn't look amused anymore and even Lizzie is frowning.

"Awful, isn't it? She's just four years old and lost almost her entire family," I agree quietly.

Polly nods. "Can she stay with her aunt at least?" she wants to know.

"It does appear so. Which at least means that her political education will be excellent, even if she won't get a traditional family life. A year with Di and Mildred and she's going to upstage every one of her teachers when it comes to women's suffrage and social justice," I remark with a smile at the thought of Di and Milly.

Polly returns my smile, but the baby just waves her feet impatiently and makes a quaking sound.

"Hush, don't cry," Polly murmurs into her ear. "I'll put you down again, alright?" Then, louder, to me, "Or do you want to hold her?" Quizzically, she looks at me.

I hurry to shake my head. "No, it's fine, really. I'm not very good with children. More often than not, they cry when I hold them," I decline.

Polly lays down her still kicking daughter in the pram but manages to cast a quick look over her shoulder at me. "Really? But you do have nephews and nieces, don't you?" she asks.

I confirm with a nod. "My other sister has a daughter and my oldest brother has one of each."

And then there's Rosa now, apparently.

"Did you never look after them?" Polly asks while straightening again. There's a protesting sound from inside the pram. Apparently, lying down wasn't what Lizzie had in mind either. Quickly, I let go of the pram's handle, causing Polly to roll her eyes amusedly as she take a hold of it herself.

"Not really," I answer, taking a step back to get some space between me and the pram. "When Ian, the oldest, was born, I was already doing nursing training in Montreal – where I always tried to get around doing duty on the paediatric ward as well, in case you're wondering. Two years later, I came here, and in the meantime, I only ever saw the children when I was home, which wasn't often. And all of this was more than two and a half years ago anyway."

Polly makes a thoughtful sound. "I suppose that makes sense," she admits. We have started walking again and she rocks the pram a little, which at least seems to have an improving effect on the wailing. It grows quieter.

Several seconds pass and when I turn my head, I notice Polly watching me intently. "Do you and Officer want children of your own?" she asks.

I deflect the question with a firm shake of my head. "I'm going to worry about that subject when the time comes."

Polly doesn't look as if my plan convinces her, but before she has time to voice her doubts aloud, I am quick to ask, "What about you? Planning a little sibling for Lizzie yet?"

At least that is enough to distract her. "For Heaven's sake, do give me a little time!" she exclaims. "Lizzie isn't even four months old and hasn't slept through a single night – and not even the fact that it drives Aunt Pomeline insane is enough to make that fun! She has to get a little older at least."

"But you would like siblings for her?" I probe.

"Of course!" nods Polly. "I never liked being an only child. I always envied you your siblings and Betty… Betty as well."

Aha.

There it is.

Betty's presence hung between us from the moment Polly walked down the street. Or, no, not her presence. Her _lack_ of presence, more like. A phantom pain. The pain of what's missing.

Polly takes a deep breath. I extend a hand and gently touch her arm.

"There," I murmur, "It's alright."

A moment of hesitation, before it spills out of Polly. "I know it's not my place, seeing as you lost a brother. But Betty was _like_ a sister to me. Every day, I still have moments when I'm not careful and find myself thinking that I ought to write to her about something and then… then I remember that that's not possible."

I nod, silently. It's no different for me. I still want to share beautiful things with Walter and, far too often, I still forget that I can't do that anymore.

"And sometimes, I lie awake at night and wonder what might have happened if we had not come here. It was my idea. I convinced her to come and now I have everything, and she is –" Trembling, she breaks off.

Dead.

Gently, I close my hand around Polly's arm and wait for her to look at me. "She made her own decisions," I remind her quietly. "She was quieter than you are, but she knew her own mind. It was her decision to come here and her decision to go to France. That isn't your fault."

Polly's eyes remain wary. Then, they cloud over, dart over towards the pram. "I always think about how she died," she whispers. "I wouldn't ask this of you, but… but you experienced it yourself and I thought… maybe you could…"

Memories flit through my mind. Memories of fire and roaring and fear and too much blood.

I will _never_ tell her about it.

"They say it was quick in Doullens. A lone plane no one had heard coming. The bomb came from nowhere and destroyed the entire ward. It was over very quickly. She probably never even knew what was happening," I reply instead and try to sound sure.

I don't know if it's the truth. It's the official version, but if it's true, I cannot say. I hope it might be. For however much I regret Betty's death, I have learned enough about death to know one thing: it might be the most merciful one of all, the death you don't see coming.

And at the same time, I know that death is not hardest on those who go but on those who remain. And that's why I now pull Polly into a hug and hold her and let her grieve for Betty, whom she loved like a sister and who, one way or another, left us too soon.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When I leave the world behind' from 1915 (lyrics and music by Irving Berlin)._


	77. When shadows are stealing

_March 31_ _st_ _, 1919  
London, England_

 **When shadows are stealing**

Ken's head is heavy on my shoulder, his breath warm on my skin. Very cautiously, so as not to wake him, I brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. The moon casts his face in a shadowy light. He looks peaceful when asleep. Younger, too.

And even though he's so close to me now, I still can't quite believe that we're here, together. While the war raged, nothing ever truly belonged to us. Every moment was just a piece of stolen time. And even the weeks spent in Germany were unreal, as if suspended in mid-air, without connection to what was or what will be. Now, however… it feels different. Like a promise finally fulfilled.

When Ken arrived in England a week ago, my first impulse was to leave London immediately and rush to his side. Bramshott isn't so far and the thought of him being just a train ride away and yet, still not with me, was hard to bear. That I stayed put anyway was mostly because he asked me to. Apparently, they are positively drowning in paperwork, which is why he promised to write as soon as he saw an opportunity to come to me instead.

The longed-for wire arrived this morning. Did I want to meet him for dinner in a hotel here in London? Like he had to ask!

The hotel he chose is smart enough to make me feel grateful for still being allowed to wear my uniform. I don't possess one single dress that wouldn't have raised eyebrows in a hotel such as this, but no one could possibly say a word against my dress uniform, which I've taken to wearing in the three weeks I spent in London. It does, however, reliably identify me as a nurse, even with the veil having given way to the blue felt hat.

When Ken arranged a room for us, part of me kept waiting for someone to inform us that, as a Canadian nursing sister, I can't possibly be his wife and that this isn't _that_ kind of hotel (not like in Étaples, where I saw more than one fellow nurse disappear with an officer into a hotel of _that_ kind). But either staff here are too polite or – more likely – the restrictions placed on nurses of the CAMC are just not common knowledge among British civilians. Either way, we got our room without any problems.

And so, it was in this room where, swathed in darkness, we found our way back to each other after weeks of separation.

Ken fell asleep a while ago, but I am too tense to even contemplate sleep. I turn my head a little and peer at the clock on the nightstand. In the pale moonlight, I can just make out the clock hands moving closer to the vertical. Nearly midnight.

Just a while ago, in his arms, it felt as if nothing but the two of us was real, but something – the silence, the unfamiliar room, the approaching witching hour – makes me restless and for the first time in weeks, I just can't seem to fall asleep.

"I promise not to die on you," Ken's voice, still heavy with sleep.

Abruptly, I turn my head. "What… what do you mean?" I ask, trying to discern his expression in the half-dark.

" _Me_ , nothing at all," answers Ken, more awake now. "But _you_ are taking my pulse. I just meant to assure you that that's quite unnecessary." He's sounding decidedly amused.

Even while he speaks, I realise that, at some point during the last minutes, my fingers must have closed around his wrist. The tips of my fingers lie gingerly on the inside of his wrist where, steady and sure, his pulse beats against my skin.

"I'm sorry. It… it calms me. Your heartbeat, I mean. I don't know anyone whose heartbeat is as regular as yours," I explain hurriedly. I try to brush it off, to quickly pull my hand back, but Ken is faster. His fingers close around mine, holding them.

He has pulled himself into a sitting position and when I look at him, I see a mischievous glint in his eyes. Before I have a chance to react to that though, he bends down and kisses me with enough emphasis to almost make me forget what I am worried about.

The clock hands have enough time to move a little closer to midnight before Ken leans back again. He raises our entwined hands, presses first a kiss to my knuckle and then our hands against his chest.

"Not very regular anymore," he announces, quite pleased, and grins.

And indeed. His heart, beating directly beneath my hand now, follows a new rhythm. Faster, and not nearly as calm.

I can't help but meet his expectant gaze with a smile and am rewarded with another quick kiss, before he lets himself fall backwards. Pulling me with him, he settles my head against his shoulder. His hand still holds mine above his heart.

Moments pass, while his heartbeat starts to slow. "Are you going to tell me what has you worried?" Ken finally asks into the darkness.

"What do you mean?" I ask, again, despite having a pretty good idea of what he means this time.

"Well," he answers without a second of hesitation, "You said that it calms you to feel my heartbeat. And if you need calming that, in turn, means that there's something else to worry you. Do you want to tell me what it is?"

For a moment, I muse how likely he is to let the subject go if I tell him that no, I don't want to share. But I suppose that would be unfair. And we do have to talk about this at some point.

Still, I hide my face against his shoulder and when I speak, my voice is muffled against his skin. "Don't you sometimes think that how we're doing all this is… _wrong_ somehow?"

One or two seconds pass without reaction from him. "Wrong," he repeats. His voice is composed but I know instinctively how much it costs him to control it. His body has tensed, and his heart is beating harder against my fingertips.

"The wrong way _around_ , then," I amend, still not looking at him.

Another moment passes in silence. "I don't think I know what you mean," Ken replies, voice still studiously calm. "Would you like to explain it?"

I don't know whether to be grateful at his composure or to be annoyed with it.

Abruptly, I pull my hand from beneath his, shake off his arm and sit up.

"I'm talking about you and me. Sometimes I think we should have done all of this differently," I admit, staring into the darkness.

"How, 'different'?" asks Ken.

I sigh, frustrated. "Different. Better, maybe. Surely slower." I already hate this conversation.

"You think it was too fast," he replies. He still sounds very calm and I don't know what to make of it.

"You _don't_?" I want to know, casting a quick look at him over my shoulder. He, too, has sat up and is watching me, alertly and intently. Quickly, I look away again.

"Not necessarily," he answers. "It… I didn't realise you feel that way. If you had told me…" He lets the sentence hang. For the first time, I can hear a strain in his voice as well.

But how to make him see?

How to make him see that it didn't feel too fast when the war was like a sword of Damocles, hanging above our heads? That only now, when we have peace and time and a future, the last one and a half years feel like a fever dream?

"I'm not saying I regret it. It's not that. I just can't help but wonder… how does it continue from here?" I reply. Instinctively, I have turned around again, now holding his gaze. Silently, I plead for him to understand.

His eyes search my face. "With us," he adds, composed once more.

"With us," I confirm quietly.

Eye still locked on my face, thoughtful and a little questioning, Ken raises a hand. Very cautiously, he touches my face, as if expecting me to withdraw. But I remain still.

Ken sighs softly. "I don't know," he admits. "I have no grand plan for the next five years, if that's what you're asking for. I only know that it might have been… well, _unusual_ , but that it never felt wrong to me. And I know that we already weathered other storms together."

"But _did_ we?" I ask fiercely. "Did we really weather them together? Or did we do it apart, each on our own?"

Quickly, I turn my head away and his hand sinks down. "We've been married for more than nine months and spent less than twenty days together since our wedding," I remind him.

That he doesn't argue tells me that he, too, has counted.

"What do you want, Rilla?" he asks quietly instead. "Because if you're not sure about this anymore… about _us_ …"

Vehemently, I shake my head. "That's not it. Not _that_!" The words stumbled over my lips in my haste to get them out.

Because it's not the _we_ that has me worried. It is, rather, the fear of something damaging this _we_. No longer war or death, but something that is slow and quiet and yet, as inescapable.

With a sigh, I turn my head, look back at Ken again. Even in the dark, I can see the concern on his face. But he remains silent and I know it's on me to explain, even when words don't want to come.

"I don't know what I want. More… more…" Desperate, I search for words. "More _time_ , I suppose."

"But we _have_ time," Ken replies gently. "We have all the time in the world." He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear and I feel myself lean into his touch.

"I was hoping we could go to Brittany once more before leaving Europe. Just the two of us," I admit.

If the sudden change of subject surprises Ken, he doesn't let on. Instead, he slowly shakes his head. "I'm afraid we won't be able to fit that in," he apologises. "I can't leave here for a long time and, if I'm being honest… you spent too much time in hospitals these past few months for me to feel comfortable in taking you to such a remote place."

I can hardly blame him for it. I don't have to ask to know that my time spent in Northwood wasn't conducive to his sleeping pattern.

"But we could come back in summer. Nowadays, it's just a puddle jump across the Atlantic. There's nothing preventing us," he suggests instead in an apparent attempt at cheering me up.

I, however, shake my head. Then, abruptly, I turn, lean forward and wrap my arms around my knees. I can feel his eyes on me, concerned, waiting, but confused as well.

"Not this summer," I reply.

"Of course. You want to spend this summer on the island, don't you? I understand that completely. That's no problem. We can go to Brittany next year," Ken reasons and I dearly wish it was that easy.

One of his hands settles on my shoulder, warm and heavy, and I have to suppress the sudden urge to shake it off. "It's not because of Glen," I clarify. "And next year, everything will be different anyway." I sound stilted even to my own ears.

Slowly, he lowers his hand.

I stay motionless, chin propped up on my knees, my eyes turned towards darkness, and wait. Pray silently for him to understand, so I won't have to say it out loud.

Seconds pass. It might as well be an eternity.

Finally – "Rilla?" There's something catching in his voice. As if he didn't fully trust it.

"Look at me please," he asks. I don't want to and do it anyway.

His face is very still, but in his eyes, there is hope and disbelief and something that is almost fearful. Several moments pass, as we gaze at each other silently, and I can't tell what he sees in my face.

"You're saying that it will be different because it won't be just the two of us next year?" he asks, finally, and very, very cautiously.

I take a deep breath.

There it is.

I've been keeping this secret for several long weeks. It feels strange to share it now.

Nevertheless, I nod. Only very slightly, but I know he doesn't miss it.

And indeed. It's as if my nod awakes something within him. The joy suddenly evident on his face is so absolute, so uncontrolled – uncontrollable? – that, for a moment, I think it must break my heart. But then, it only breaks when he reaches out for me and I instinctively draw backwards. When the joy starts to waver, giving way first to confusion and then, finally, understanding.

"You aren't happy," he realises.

I can see him fight to pull up his mask to hide behind, but he doesn't succeed. Emotions flash across his face before he can wrestle them down. Disappointment, confusion, sadness.

"You aren't happy," he repeats. His voice catches.

I sigh softly, wrapping my arms around myself. I want to look away but force myself to brave his gaze. "I don't know what to feel," my voice barely above a whisper.

Another truth. For weeks, ever since I couldn't ignore it any longer, I've tried understanding it. And yet, every day just leaves me feeling more confused than the last.

Ken rubs his face in his hands. Then he stills, face still hidden, for several long seconds, before slowly lowering the hands again. And part of me wants nothing more but to reach over and pull him close, but I remain where I am, merely wrapping my arms a little tighter around myself.

"Do you… do you want to explain it to me?" Ken asks, sounding slightly strangled.

Maybe it would be easier if he were mad. Maybe anything would be better than this utter dejectedness.

I can't bear to look at him any longer, so I turn my head away and let my hair fall into my face, to block him out, or maybe myself.

"I'm scared," I tell the darkness. It's no more than a whisper.

A second passes. Two seconds.

Then a rustle of the bedsheets and his arms, pulling me close. A shaky breath leaves my lips as I hide my face against his chest. His heart beats close to my ear, not calm and not steady, but _there_.

"What is scaring you?" his voice is muffled by my hair.

I don't even have to think about it. I've spent too many weeks with doubt gnawing at me not to have an answer for him now.

"I'm scared of failing," I murmur. "I don't know how to be someone's…. someone's _mother_. I don't know if I can be."

For several moments, Ken doesn't answer. His arms gently rock me from side to side.

"We will find out how to do it," he finally replies. It doesn't sound very hard, the way he says it.

"But _how_?" I argue, raising my head to look at him. "I don't know anything about children. I don't even like them, particularly."

Pensively, Ken's eyes search my face. His arms still keep me close. "It's not about whether you like children or not," he points out, words obviously carefully chosen, "It's about this child. _Our_ child."

The question, unspoken, hangs between us. Whether I can love _this_ child.

Our child.

Maybe he is right. Maybe that makes a difference. Maybe you don't have to like children to love your own.

Maybe he is right. I desperately hope he is.

I nestle closer to him, my head against his shoulder. He presses a kiss into my hair. His fingertips gently stroke down my back. For several long moments, neither of us says a word.

"I'm not saying it will be easy," Ken finally offers. "And I'm not saying I know how to do it. And yes, it's a lot, all at once. But I think… if there's anything to justify these past years, it's this. If your brother was right and we can really form this broken world into a better one… what for, if not for our children? So that they can grow up happy and loved and with their dreams within reach."

He sounds serious, even solemn. I move my head a little to look at him. His calmness calms me as well.

"Quite a lot to carry for very narrow shoulders," I remark quietly and am rewarded with a smile.

"Does it already have shoulders?" he asks, and his voice is almost… eager.

When I raise both eyebrows in disbelief, he just shrugs, unconcerned. "What do I know about foetal development? You're the expert," he points out.

Which is probably true. "Yes, it does have shoulders," I confirm, a little amused. "If the books are to be believed, it already looks a lot like a baby. Just smaller."

"How small?" Ken immediately wants to know.

What did the clever book in the British Library say on the matter? The size of two fists of a man. So, I reach backwards, pull his hands to the front so that they rest between us. Then I form them into fists and lay them together. "This small," I explain.

For a long moment, Ken looks down at his fists in wonder, before his gaze moves over to me, fliting between my face and my stomach. One hand reaches out but remains hovering in the air. "May I?" he asks, suddenly almost shy.

I refrain from pointing out that he doesn't usually ask for verbal permission to touch me. Instead, I just nod and his slowly extends his hand further. When he touches my stomach though, I have to bite back a laugh.

"It's a foetus. Not a stomach bug," I inform him while covering his hand with my own and moving it downwards a little.

Ken, however, remains unmoved. "Can it hear us?" he asks, peering down.

"I don't know. So far, it hasn't been very talkative. But you could ask," I suggest.

He doesn't have to be told twice. "Hello little stomach bug. Can you hear us?" he asks, leaning forward a little.

While he speaks, his eyes find mine and it's the roguish glint in them that lets me know that he's expecting me to protest against the moniker. I don't. Partly because I probably asked for it. Mostly though, it's because there's a lightness, even a sudden playfulness, about him that he doesn't often allow anyone to see. For me, who I spent the past weeks full of sorrow and heavy thoughts, it's like balm.

"Can you feel it?" Ken wants to know, after apparently having failed to get an answer to his last question.

"If I can feel it moving? Not yet. Two fists are probably too small for that still," I answer readily. "But it still doesn't ever let me forget it's there."

Quizzically, Ken cocks his head to the head. "What do you mean?"

What do I mean? I _could_ tell him about all the unpleasant companions of the little bug – some of which are worthy of a real stomach bug. But maybe that's a conversation for another day.

"I gained weight," I inform him instead. "And truth to be told, it surprises me that you didn't notice."

I can still fit into my uniform and for the time being, it hides all tell-tale signs, but beneath both our hands, there's a small bump already visible. He can hardly have missed that.

"I was pleased to find that I can't count your ribs anymore," Ken replies with a shrug. "Seeing as it calms me not to be able to count your ribs anymore, I surely wasn't going to question that. I just figured someone had finally fed you properly. You overestimate my experience in matters of bugs if you think I can recognise the difference."

No, I don't suppose he can. It's quite obvious how clueless he is. Which wouldn't be so bad if I didn't feel as clueless myself. Sure, I learned enough about pregnancy at nursing school, and what I don't know I can read about in clever books. That's not the problem. The problem is what comes afterwards. Are there any clever books for that?

I sigh softly. Ken sits up, immediately alert. "No sighing," he pleads. "I liked it better when you were smiling."

And for him, I attempt a smile, though it remains shaky. The lightness of the past few minutes passes quickly as the clutches of sorrow close around me once more.

His free arm reaches out to pull me closer and, grateful, I curl into his embrace. My own hand, still lying on top of his, wanders upwards, finding his heartbeat.

"Aren't you happy at all?" Ken asks softly. When I look up, I see something raw in his eyes.

I lower my head again. "It's not that," I answer, desperately reaching for words. "It's just… Nothing has ever scared me as much as this does." The sigh threatening to spill from my lips, I quickly swallow down.

"Me neither," Ken admits. "It's a responsibility like nothing else. No arguing there."

"Do you think we can make it work?" I ask, almost shy.

Ken makes a thoughtful sound, so quiet that I feel it more than I can hear it. "We will love it. That seems to be the most important thing. We can learn about the rest. I mean, it's not like we don't have a whole bunch of people only too willing to help us. It won't be easy, but I think it will be worth it," he answers and sounds so utterly certain that I want nothing more than to believe him.

But there's something else. Something that neither love nor any kind of help can solve. The worst fear of them all.

"What if… what if we can't protect it?" I whisper, barely audible, and look up at him. My voice sounds strangely broken.

Ken doesn't answer. His arm keeps me close, pulling my head down against his shoulder. His hand gently presses against my stomach, his lips into my hair. But he doesn't answer.

Beneath my fingertips, I feel the unsteady beat of his heart.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'A mother's prayer for her boy out there' from 1918 (lyrics by Andrew B. Sterling, music by Arthur Lange)._


	78. We'll take a cup of kindness yet

_April 1_ _st_ _, 1919  
London, England_

 **We'll take a cup of kindness yet**

"Fingers," announces Ken as he enters the bathroom.

I peer over the edge of the bathtub and see him standing in the doorway, his face hidden by an open book.

"A good morning to you, too," I greet him, deadpan.

Neither of us slept well last night, which is probably the reason why I only awoke this morning when the sun was shining brightly. The first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was the empty side of the bed where Ken had slept, and for a short but horrible moment I feared he might have left. That the news of last night, or else my reaction to it, could have been enough to drive him away. But then I saw the note on the bedside table, assuring me that he'd be back shortly, and could breathe again.

Besides, looking at it in the bright light of day – out of the two of us, I'm far more likely to run. And I can't.

"Good morning, my love," Ken greets back, lowering the book just enough so he can lean forward and give me a kiss.

I can feel his smile against my lips. Perhaps it might yet be a good morning, after all.

"What about fingers?" I enquire, while wiggling all five fingers of my right hand in front of his eyes, splashing tiny droplets of waters on his face.

Ken straightens, quickly saving the book from getting wet, and wipes his face with one sleeve. "It has fingers. The baby," he then elaborates.

I nod. "It sure has. As a matter of fact, it also has toes to go with the fingers," I add. "But how do you know at which stage of development is it right now?"

"I might be pretty clueless about some things, but I _can_ count," Ken informs me drily, raising both eyebrows.

With I smile, I concede his point. Then I lean forward a little to catch a look at the book in his hands. "What are you reading?" I want to know.

For a moment, Ken raises the book to give me a better look, but when I extend a wet hand towards it, he quickly pulls it back again. However, I've already recognised it as a brand-new copy of one of the books I've perused in the British Library.

"Where did you get this?" I enquire, propping up my chin on the edge of the bathtub and watching him pull up a stool from the vanity and sit down.

"I bought it," he answers with a shrug. "That was why I left this morning in the first place. I figured it would be helpful for me not to be totally clueless." He frowns at the book in his hands, adding, "Though some things in here are downright disturbing."

I have to smile at his sceptical expression. "Do us both a favour and skip the chapter about abnormal pregnancies," I ask. "That one is creepy."

Clearly doubtful, Ken looks from me to the book and back again. "But how else am I supposed to know –?" he begins.

" _You_ , not at all," I interrupt him. " _I_ am the nurse and _you_ are clueless, remember? Just leave it to me." The last thing I need is for him to check me for obscure symptoms.

He doesn't look convinced, but doesn't argue either, so I stand up inside the tub and nod towards a pile of towels. "Hand me one of those, please?" I ask. Ken nods quickly, putting the book down and getting up himself. When I climb from the tub, he holds up one of the towels for me to step into, but instead of letting me go after having wrapped it around my body, his arms hold me tight.

"That's something I thought about anyway," he remarks. "You're not only a nurse but a licensed teacher as well. And you, of all people, are worried about not being able to raise a child?"

"It takes more than that," I argue, but lean against him anyway. His arms lightly sway me from side to side.

"Certainly," Ken agrees. "But it's a start. You know what to do when it falls ill, and you know how to teach it things. That's not too bad a start for our child."

Hm. It doesn't even sound that nonsensical, put like that.

The thing is, however, that being a mother always seemed to be something that falls from the sky. As grateful as I am for my own mother, she set the bar pretty high. And to Faith and Nan, too, being a mother seemed to come so easily that I always thought that, if it isn't that way for me as well, I must be unsuitable. That both teacher and nursing training might actually come in handy, is something I've never really considered before.

At any rate, it should be more useful than a college degree in economics and politics and an officer's career, highflying as it might have been.

"And while I watch over the physical wellbeing and the cognitive development of our child – what do you intend to do in the meantime?" I tease Ken, raising both eyebrows high.

He smirks. "I am incredibly well-qualified to teach it a variety of soldiers' songs," he informs me.

No question about what kind of songs he's talking about.

"Don't you dare!" I warn when he takes a deep breath, obviously to offer me a taste of his repertoire. His smirk widens.

"You said yourself that it can't hear us yet," he reminds me, visibly amused.

"I said that I don't know," I correct. "And I'm not going to risk it."

Instead of answering, Ken surprises me by leaning down and kissing me sweetly.

"See?" he remarks quietly, nudging my nose with his own. "You've already started looking out for it."

Surprised, I look at him while he draws back a little. He meets my gaze with a smile.

Might he be right? Have I, quite by instinct, already started taking care of this child?

"Only it won't really do any good, will it? We both know that we can't protect it from the world," I remind him of the question that he didn't answer last night.

For we both know that this world can be a cruel, even relentless place. And that nothing and no one can offer protection from it.

"Maybe not," Ken concedes thoughtfully. "But that doesn't mean we're powerless."

It doesn't?

Feeling powerless was one of the most prevalent of my emotions in the past year. I can't imagine it was much different for him.

"We already decided to love it, didn't we?" Ken continues, and it would be a rhetorical question but for the tiny flicker of uncertainty on his eyes.

I nod, silent.

"Good. Then we'll make sure that it knows that. That it will never have cause to doubt it. We won't always be able to protect it, much as we may try. But we can teach it to look after itself. And we can make sure that it knows everything it needs to know and, more importantly, that it believes in itself and that it can achieve anything it wants to," Ken adds, and it sounds almost like a vow.

For a moment, I consider his words while I curl myself closer to him. "I'd still prefer to be able to protect it always," I remark, but there's no insistence behind my words. He isn't responsible for this world any more than I am.

"I know," Ken sighs. "Me, too. But you can't protect anyone from the world out there. You can only support them while they do it themselves."

And instinctively, I know that he means me, and Persis as well. He couldn't protect either of us from the burden of war, but he was always ready to share that burden, if at all possible. Maybe that's the best one can do.

I slide my hands over his shoulders, stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. Immediately, his arms close tighter around me and it's quite evident that for now, the complicated discussions are over.

"When are we meeting Persis again?" I murmur against his lips while my towel slips to the floor.

"Not before midday," is his answer but he sounds distracted as he pushes my still wet hair behind my ears with great concentration.

With a humming sound, I acknowledge that piece of information, while my fingers already busy themselves with his shirt buttons. Until, without warning, there's a jolt going through Ken's body and he raises his head. He doesn't let go, but his sudden change in demeanour is enough to make my fingers still for the time being.

"What's the matter?" I ask quietly.

Frowning, he considers me. "Is this… safe?" he asks, voice almost wary.

If it is…?

Oh. That.

I have to suppress the smile threatening to find its way to my lips. "What does your clever book say on the matter?" I ask back instead.

He, however, doesn't even seem to realise that I am teasing him, for the frown immediately deepens and he tries to turn around towards his book. "I don't know…" he murmurs. "I didn't read anything about it, but there might be… I just need to have another look…"

"You have to do nothing of the sort," I interrupt, now unable to fight the smile. With one hand at his chin, I turn his face back around so that he has to look at me.

"But –" he begins, his expression still deeply sceptical.

Putting a finger to his lips, I silence him. "No but. I am a nurse and you are clueless. Did you already forget about that?" I ask him, arching up an eyebrow.

For several moments, Ken just looks at me silently, but then his forehead becomes smooth again. "You are the expert," he replies with a tiny shrug and allows me to pull him back into a kiss.

We are only _just_ in time for our meeting with Persis.

She is already waiting in the hotel lobby when we come down, sitting in an armchair and graciously watching a footman serve her tea. She looks very elegant and ladylike, or at least she does until she sees us and jumps to her feet so quickly that the poor footman takes a surprised step backwards, spilling the tea.

Persis doesn't give him another glance. Instead, she hurries towards us, a wide smile on her face, and throws her arms around Ken without further ado. I see him hug her back and hold her close, before I turn away to give them a moment. They haven't seen each other in months, after all.

Instead, I let my gaze wander over the elegantly furnished lobby. It's not very busy, with just a few guests present at this time of the day. The poor footman is just mopping up the spilled tea and when our gazes meet, I smile apologetically.

Next to me, I notice a movement and turn my head back. Ken has taken a step back, holding Persis by the shoulders and giving her a critical once-over. Then he frowns, obviously confused by something.

" _Pink_?" he asks, incredulous, his gaze fixed on her uniform.

For a second, Persis doesn't move, then she sighs, clearly frustrated. "Goodness, you two deserve each other!" she declares, throwing both hands in the air in what is rather a theatrical manner, and dislodging Ken's hold on her in the process.

He looks at me quizzically, obviously searching for an explanation for Persis's exclamation, but before I can even begin on one, she has already turned towards me. Quickly, she kisses me on both cheeks, in a way that she has taken to doing recently and which she has probably first seen in France.

"Come on, I am hungry," she announces, slipping her arm through mine and pulling me into the direction of the dining room.

At Ken, she only directs an unconcerned "Are you coming?" over her shoulder. When I look back at him as well, I can see him following us, shaking his head slightly, obviously amused.

With typical effrontery, Persis organises one of the best tables for us, right next to a big window with a lovely look at the hotel garden. She plops down on one of the chairs and watches with obvious interest as Ken pulls out another chair for me.

"What's the matter?" I ask after having sat down as well.

Persis cocks her head to the side. "Up until now, I had to imagine the two of you together. It's interesting to finally see it for real," she explains and wrinkles her nose in thought.

I blink, surprised. I've come to care for both of them so much that I never even considered that this is the first time we're all three of us together like this. At least the first time since it matters.

"And, what's the verdict?" Ken asks easily. He has leaned back, one arm extending along the backrest of my chair.

For a moment, Persis's eyes narrow, before her expression clears and she nods firmly. "Yes. It fits," she announces, and her smile is catching.

Someone clearing their throat prevents Ken and me from answering. Instead, we both look up at the waiter who had just appeared at our table. "What may I offer you, Ma'am?" he enquires, looking directly at me.

I look back at him, feeling unsure. Ken's arm slung over my backrest, though probably a bit too casual for this environment, has obviously made me identifiable as the married woman at this table. Apparently, the waiter took this to mean that it is only good and proper to ask for my wishes first. It's just that I have no idea at all what I am supposed to answer. I have no experience with the etiquette in hotels as posh as this one.

"We'll have whatever the chef recommends," Persis choses that moment to interject from her side of the table.

Alarmed, I turn towards Ken. For me, exhaustion might have been much worse than nausea and I am lucky not to have had even one day as wretched as some of our patients back in Montreal. Still, for a few months now, I've been unable to eat anything that ever was able to swim. I don't even do very well with smelling it.

How much of what I'm hurriedly trying to communicate to him with my eyes Ken really understands, I can't tell, but he does place a calming hand on my arm and turns to the waiter. "What _does_ the chef recommend?" he asks.

Persis rolls her eyes at him elongating the process of ordering needlessly, but the waiter nods stiffly. "For a starter, we recommend a cock-a-leekie soup, followed by a main dish of grilled mutton chops with baked potatoes, and custard pudding for dessert," he recites.

Ken looks at me questioningly and I give the tiniest of nods. At the very least, nothing of what the waiter listed just there, ever had fins.

With a nod at the waiter, Ken confirms the suggested order, before deciding to leave the choice of wine to the sommelier. The waiter melts into the background with a respectful "Very well, Sir."

Through it all, Persis is watching us quite benevolently and, the moment the waiter is turned, she takes up the thread of our earlier conversation again. "I really think I could get used to this," she declares with an elaborate gesture towards Ken and me.

He raises an eyebrow. "I hardly think there is any other option for you," he informs her drily.

"I could move away from Toronto. If I do that, I would _not_ have to get used to the sight," Persis immediately responds, but I can see her fighting down a smile.

Ken grins, obviously unmoved. "You could," he concedes. "But Toronto has, one way or another, gotten used to you by now. I don't know how well the rest of the world would deal with your continued presence."

The starched and elaborately folded napkin Persis throws at him, he catches easily. Persis grimaces and he laughs.

I, however, watch both of them thoughtfully. Each on their own, I know well, but I've never seen them together this way, or at least not consciously. There's a lightness in the way they act around each other, a deep trust that transcends the playful teasing. They have such an obvious bond that I instinctively realise how much easier Persis made it for us by deciding to like me. We would have made our marriage work without her blessing, no doubt about it, but it's much easier having it.

Ken is just throwing the napkin back, but Persis dodges it quickly so that it falls to the floor behind her. I quickly cast a look around, but thankfully, no one seems to have noticed. Quite likely I am the only person at this table at all concerned by the fact that we are in a very posh restaurant right now.

"Are you coming back to Toronto then, little sister?" Ken asks now, obviously sincerely curious.

For a moment, she glares at him – in all likelihood because of the address as little sister – but then Persis, too, becomes serious. "Certainly, at first. I want to see Mum and Dad again and get to know Selina's baby and just do nothing at all for a couple of weeks," she answers slowly.

"And afterwards? What plans do you have for the world?" Ken asks, his tone both affectionate and indulgent in view of the often-elaborate plans that have been known to take form in his sister's mind.

Persis turns her head away and I immediately know that something's the matter. Normally, Persis almost always holds eye contact. If she looks away, there's a reason for that.

But before she gets a chance to elaborate, the waiter returns with the recommended wine. He pours some for Persis, while Ken and I stick to water. (Back in Montreal, we told too many mothers-to-be to steer clear of alcohol for me to have forgotten the lesson.)

By the time the waiter leaves again, Persis has managed to compose herself. She is looking directly at Ken now, her chin tilted forward. He doesn't miss the change in her expression either and quizzically tilts his head to the side. Beneath the table, I reach for his hand.

"Tim and I have decided that we'd like to travel a bit," Persis remarks, her voice challenging and firm and yet, a little vulnerable.

Ken slowly lets go of a breath. "Tim," he repeats. Neither his tone nor his expression gives away what he's thinking.

Persis sighs, frustrated. "Don't do that. I told you about Tim. He is a _friend_!" she insists. When Ken only narrows his eyes slightly in response, she turns to me for help. "Rilla tell him that Tim is just a friend. And that he will _never_ be anything more than that."

"Tim is just a friend and will never be anything more than that," I parrot helpfully. I suppress my smile, but Ken must have seen enough mirth in my eyes to turn thoughtful.

He looks from me to Persis and back again. When our eyes meet, I can see thoughtfulness slowly give way to understanding. For the fraction of a second, he raises an eyebrow in question. I confirm with the tiniest of nods.

The frown disappears from his face. "Alright, so he's a friend," he remarks matter-of-factly and hints at a shrug. The reasons why Tim won't ever be more than a friend don't seem to interest him all that much and I feel belated satisfaction at having been right to defend him in front of Shirley.

Still, a promise is a promise.

"But even with him being just a friend," Ken adds, "You won't be able to convince the world out there of it. And you should know yourself what they're going to be saying about a young, unmarried woman travelling with a man who's no relation of hers."

He doesn't even say it unkindly, but Persis still glares at him quite spectacularly. "So, what? We'll say he's my cousin or something. And besides, we don't intend to travel the kind of countries where people are much worried about such antiquated rules," she informs him snippily.

"Where do you want to travel?" I quickly interject in an attempt to get her to calm down a little.

"South America. Asia. Africa," answers Persis with a sweep of her arm. "The world is so much bigger than just North America and Europe and it's time for people to realise that. We want to show them how beautiful the world can be. Tim takes amazing pictures on his camera and I can write reports about our travels. Even four years of studies didn't make a concert pianist out of me, I know that very well, but I _can_ write!"

Her rebellious eyes find Ken. He returns her gaze, very composed, and it seems to make her even angrier. "Come on, say something!" she demands. "Tell me that it's a foolish idea and much too dangerous and that no one is going to read it anyway. Say it!" Outwardly, she is defiant and stubborn, but her eyes look a little misty to me. And if I see it, surely Ken must as well?

A moment passes before – "I would read it." His voice is very calm, but there's a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Persis just sits there, as if struck by thunder. The fight leaves her in one breath as she slumps down a little. Beneath the table, Ken squeezes my hand and I know what he's thinking.

We can't protect them. We can only be there to support them as they find their own way.

"So, you don't think it's a foolish idea?" asks Persis and suddenly, she sounds small.

"I think it's a _completely_ foolish idea," Ken corrects, looking at her tenderly. "But if anyone can pull it off, it's you."

For a second, Persis just stares at him, opening and closing her mouth several times without getting out one word. Obviously put out at having been rendered speechless, she lets herself fall backwards in her chair and pouts. Ken gives me a conspiratorial grin and I smile back.

"But you do intend to come back sometimes between your travels, do you?" he asks. "We can't have you forget your family, after all." For a fraction of a second, his loving gaze brushes me, before he turns back to his sister.

And I have no idea _what_ it is – even more so, as he certainly didn't intend to let her know quite yet – but something in his words or in his expression makes Persis sit up abruptly. With wide eyes, she looks from him to me, before a smile spreads over his face.

" _Really_? Oh, I am so happy for you!" she declares while jumping up so quickly that her chair falls backwards to the floor. She rounds the table – almost running into the disapproving waiter, on whose tray the soup sloshes dangerously – and I get up quite automatically. Not even a second later, she throws both arms around my neck and holds me tight.

I return the hug, turning my head to the side so that I won't have to look at anyone. For Ken's sureness might have helped a little against my uncertainty, but Persis's enthusiasm, as heartfelt and sincere as it is, feels like a blow.

It's the kind of unconditional happiness I should be feeling and yet, for some reason, don't seem to be able to feel. And I wonder if I ever will.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Auld land syne' from 1788 (lyrics taken from a poem by Robert Burns (itself probably inspired by an earlier song by James Watson), music as per a Scottish folk song (possibly 'The Miller's wedding'))._


	79. The first little song of love

_April 9_ _th_ _, 1919  
No. 13 Canadian General Hospital, Hastings, England_

 **The first little song of love**

"Has this always been a hospital?" I enquire as I survey the corridor we are currently walking along. Jem has been working here for a good eighteen months now, but only now have I finally managed to visit him.

My brother shakes his head. "It was originally a workhouse," he answers. "The older part is some eighty years old, but the newer buildings were erected sometime in the last twenty years."

"A workhouse," I murmur, suddenly seeing my surroundings quite differently. We've all read _Oliver Twist_ , after all.

"It's alright. We have steam heating in most of the buildings and direct access to water and electricity. I've worked under much worse conditions," replies Jem with a shrug.

He's alluding to his time spent in the Mediterranean, of course, and I suppose after that, you gladly take just about anything, even a workhouse. And yet…

"No worries. I promise this place isn't haunted," Jam adds and flashes a grin my way as he opens a door to his left and motions for me to go through it.

And though I know it to be a joke and I realise that I should laugh at it, I feel the laugh catch in my throat. I attempt for a smile instead, but even that apparently comes out weak, for after Jem has closed the door behind both of us, he turns to me with a quizzical look.

"Since when have you been scared of ghosts?" he asks and gently nudges me with one elbow.

I sigh. "I'm not scared of ghosts. You just reminded me of something," I answer quickly, not quite sure if I want him to ask further or not.

But I suppose Jem wouldn't be Jem if he just let something like this slide. "What is it?" he immediately wants to know.

I don't answer right away though. Instead, I cross the room – it looks like some combination of office and simple treatment room – and walk over to the window. The look outside does little to heighten my mood though, for the unfriendly brick buildings only serve to remind me of the history of this place. And even apart from that, this obviously isn't an area of Hastings where more well-off people have settled, and it shows.

"Walter," I finally remark.

For a moment, nothing happens, but then I hear Jem's footsteps behind me and he appears next to me at the window.

"What about him?" he asks, cautious now.

I turn my head away, look out of the window again, though without seeing much at all. "Oh, it's probably nothing," I begin slowly. "Only… before he… before he died, he said that if any of us named a child for him, he'd come back and haunt us."

"As if we needed further encouragement," Jem replies. His voice is serious, but when I turn my head very slightly to look at him, I see the ghost of a smile on his lips.

He's right, of course. If it could bring him back, I'd name my first son for Walter without a second thought. Hell, I'd probably even name him _Cuthbert_ , if I thought it would help at all.

"Do you miss him?" I ask instead, almost surprising myself by voicing the question out loud.

Now Jem's the one sighing. "Of course," he answers. "I mean, it's slowly becoming… not _easier_ , per se, but… I am slowly arriving at the point where I _know_ him to be dead. I no longer catch myself thinking of him every day and, for a second or two, forgetting he's dead, only for the realisation to return like a blow to the gut. It's… his death is starting to feel like a fact instead of a bad dream."

I nod, very slightly. "You see something beautiful and no longer think 'Walter would like that' but 'Walter would _have_ liked it'," I add quietly.

"Still hurts like hell," Jem replies and grimaces. And he's right.

Just because Walter's name is now irrevocably connected to the past, the pain isn't any less. It's just another form of pain, not as hot and burning, but a duller, deeper kind. For just because we have accepted the fact of his death now – _had_ to accept it – that doesn't make the memory any less painful.

"It… it will change though," Jem continues, his gaze turned inwards. "It takes time, but there will be a day when you can remember and not hurt as much."

Surprised, I look at him. It sounds as if he's talking from experience, but I can't see…

"Jerry," explains Jem when he notices my questioning look. "I know you were never close to him and there's no shame in that, but he was my best friend."

Jerry. Of course.

I suppose I could have known it. Perhaps I _should_ have. But Jem is right. Jerry and I never had much to do with one another and even though I regret his illness and death, I primarily think of him in connection to Nan. To Jem, however, Jerry was important long before he married our sister. It is, therefore, quite understandable that his death probably wasn't any easier than Walter's was.

I wonder… but no. If Jem learned about the nature of Jerry's death somehow, there's no use in opening old wounds. And if he doesn't know… well, sometimes ignorance can be a blessing.

"Would you do it? Name a son for Walter? Or Jerry?" I ask instead.

For several seconds, Jem looks out of the window, clearly thoughtful. "I reckon there are people who'd expect it of me," he answers.

"Since when are _you_ interested in people's expectations?" I ask, feeling a little smile make its way onto my lips.

Jem, too, laughs softly. "True," he concedes. "Though you have to admit that it's not the worst way to honour the memory of someone you lost."

"Hm… maybe," I answer, though not really convinced. "But it's also quite a burden for the child, isn't it?" After all, we both of us know how it is to live with the name of someone long dead.

"I suppose you're right," agrees Jem. "And I also suppose that that's the reason why they invented middle names. That way, you can honour someone, dead or alive, and the child still gets a name of their own. Two birds with one stone, if you will."

Sounds logical. At any rate, that he thinks this way is hardly surprising. After all, Ian is _Ian John_ and Sara _Sara Anne_ in full.

"Besides," Jem adds, "It looks as if you'll be the first one who gets to find out if Walter makes good on his promise and _really_ comes back as a ghost."

He says it with a smile and an amused glint in his eyes that almost suffices in hiding the shadow of melancholy beneath it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glare at him, but truth be told, I am well aware it was naïve of me to believe that Jem wouldn't notice. Ken might be pretty clueless when it comes to this particular case of stomach bug, but Jem obviously isn't.

"Come on, spill! Am I right?" Jem asks and nudges me when I don't react.

My eyes turned back to the window pane, from where my half-translucent image looks back at me, I nod.

"I knew it!" declares Jem, sounding decidedly pleased with himself. "Fourth month?"

"Beginning of fifth," I correct, my voice toneless.

Not that my brother notices. Instead, he has taken me by the shoulders and turned me around to study my appearance thoroughly. "Well, you're tall and slender enough to hide it even into fifth month," he points out, "But it won't be long until your pretty uniform won't fit anymore."

As if I didn't know that myself.

Another scrutinising look from Jem. Then he suddenly raises his head, as if just having realised something. "Wait a minute. Four months ago, you were –" he begins.

"In Germany," I interrupt him. "Excellent deduction, Sherlock." I can't prevent my voice from sounding a little irritated.

Jem, however, just grins. "Well, who would have thought that you'd bring such a lovely souvenir from Germany," he remarks, obviously quite pleased with the thought.

I don't reply, instead trying to shake off his hold on my shoulders. Unsuccessfully, of course.

"It also explains why you were so exhausted," Jem observes.

I shrug – still without dislodging his hands. "It was a combination of things, I guess. The lingering effects of the flu, the general strain of the past years and…" With a vague wave of my hand, I finish the sentence.

"And the baby," Jem voices what I don't want to, and nods. "Didn't the doctors of the medical board notice it when they examined you?"

"Obviously not. But it's already been a month since they diagnosed me as having _debilit_ y and sent me on my way," I answer, a little unwilling. _When_ will he finally let go of my shoulders?

"So, you're still playing the little virgin for the army's benefit?" Jem enquires and raises both eyebrows.

I, on the other hand, have to suppress an eye-roll. "I thought about just telling them, but there's no use to it now. It would just complicate things needlessly. If they have to bring me back as Ken's wife instead of as a nurse, it would only mess with everyone's plans. And even as his wife, I can't be with him as long as he's still stuck in that camp in Bramshott, so there's no benefit to telling the truth. It's just easier to keep everything as is and spare myself the hassle," I explain.

Besides, there's still the option of my un-sanctioned marriage garnering me a dishonourable discharge, should it become known to the army. It doesn't make much of a difference either way, but Ken said there might come a day when I regret not getting a general demob after all these months of hard work. And though I have too much on my plate right now to give it much thought, he's probably right – there's no telling if, sometime in the future, I won't come to mind after all.

"That does actually sound quite logical," Jem concedes, finally letting go of my shoulders. "Does Ken know?"

I nod silently.

Jem makes a thoughtful sound. "Is he a little happier than you are, at least?"

Instinctively, I take a step back. "I don't know what you mean," I declare, but it sounds insincere even to my own ears.

Jem merely rolls his eyes at me. "You give off the feeling as if the child is mostly an inconvenience to you," he points out.

Ah, damn. When did Jem become observant?

Instead of answering, I fold my arms in front of my body, more an attempt at protection than a show of stubbornness.

"Come on, tell me," Jem asks, quite kindly, while he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer to his side. We are standing next to each other now, both turned towards the window, which at least means that I only have to look at his pale image and not at him directly.

I sigh heavily. "Oh, I don't know… it's just a lot happening all at the same time," I answer hesitatingly. "That I'm suddenly no longer a nurse but… you know. That it won't be just the two us of come autumn, even though we still have to figure out how to live together for any stretch of time. So far, the longest stretch of time we spent together was two weeks, which isn't really very much. Then there's the fact that Toronto is completely unfamiliar to me…" I break off and have another sigh.

"So, you intend to settle in Toronto?" Jem asks.

"That's the plan. And there's no need for you to look so sceptical. It was my decision and I still think it's the most logical one," I clarify, voice firm. "It's just that it's one more new thing at a time when everything already feels new and a little scary."

Jem squeezes me comfortingly and I watch my mirror image lay her head on the shoulder of Jem's likeness. "Do you know where you're going to live in Toronto?" he asks, probably in an attempt to direct my thoughts into a more practical direction.

"There's nothing definite yet. We decided to choose something together. Ken still has his apartment, but that's not very large and besides, he has told Nan that she and Connie can continue to live there after Di and Mildred and Rose have moved out," I reply.

Mirror-Jem frowns. "Where is Di moving to?" he wants to know.

"She and Mildred are looking for a bigger place. The apartment has apparently been pretty crowded ever since Nan arrived and now that Mildred's niece is living with them as well…" I vaguely wave my hand.

Jem's frown, however, only deepens. "But wouldn't it make more sense for Di and _Nan_ to look for another place to stay together instead of Di and some friend?" he asks, genuinely confused.

I quickly lower my head so that my image doesn't betray me.

Can it be that he doesn't _know_?

That Shirley won't share his secret with anyone was pretty obvious, but for some reason, I thought that Di and Mildred were known to a larger circle by now, at least within the family. Walter knew, after all, Shirley and I do, and I don't see how Nan _couldn't_ know by now. If Jem, however, is in the dark, that means Faith doesn't know either, which leads me to conclude that our parents also haven't been told.

Still keeping my head lowered, I try to make sense of my jumbling thoughts. I kept my love for Ken hidden for a long time, but that was my decision. I was always aware that I could tell at any time and that, though it might have been a bit awkward, I could count on my family to be supportive. That Shirley and Di obviously both think they have to keep this secret even from our parents feels… not right, somehow. Because no child should have to keep something like this from their parents.

But then, what do I really know?

"Rilla?" Jem's voice interrupts my thoughts.

Right. He's still waiting for an answer.

I arrange my features into a neutral expression before raising my head. "Di and Mildred have been living together for many years and obviously, that works out quite well. Why change it, now? And I could imagine that Nan would like to be alone for a time while she finds her footing in her new life," I finally answer, markedly casual, and am a little relieved at how well I manage. It might not be a totally convincing explanation, but it's also not one to be immediately disproven.

But Jem still doesn't look convinced, so I quickly continue, "In any case, Ken and I decided to look for a house, preferably with a garden. I think I will like having some trees in the big city. And it's important for him that we choose it together, so we'll only be able to look for it once we're both back. Alas, we'll see how that goes. What about you and Faith though? Are you going back to Lowbridge?"

It takes a moment, but then I can see how Jem shakes off any lingering questions about the living situation of our sisters and turns back towards me. "We thought about it, but decided to stay in the Glen," he answers. "One of us ought to go back, after all."

"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely interested.

"Our parents aren't getting any younger," Jem replies with a slight shrug. "Faith says that the war was quite hard on them, and Walter's death even more so. Besides, Dad has been trying to provide medical care for both Glen and Lowbridge simultaneously ever since I left, and even though Faith helps him whenever possible, it's more than he can manage on his own. And with regards to Mum… not only did they all mourn Susan's death, her absence is also felt in very practical ways. Ingleside is too big a house for mum to keep all by herself. That's why I think it makes sense for someone to go back and keep an eye on her and Dad."

"That doesn't have to be you though?" I carefully point out and can't help my voice rising in question at the end.

Slowly, Jem shakes his head. "Maybe not. But I'm the oldest, am I not? It's my responsibility. And _besides_ ," he quickly continues as I open my mouth to protest, "Faith agrees with me. She wants to leave neither our parents nor John and Rosemary on their own. Jerry's and Bruce's deaths were terribly hard on them. And seeing as no one yet knows where Una and Fred will go after he returns in the summer… it makes sense for Faith and me to stay. That way, we can look after our parents as well as John and Rosemary."

My image in the window pane knits her brows into a complicated frown. "But… do you _want_ to do that?" I persist. "What about your work?"

Jem smiles at my stubbornness. "It's truly alright," he assures. "Sure, there were times when I thought about working in a big hospital somewhere in the city, but I've experienced more than enough work in big hospitals these past years and what can I say? I've found that I don't particularly like it. If I go back to Glen, I can work with Dad, and in the end, I think that being a community doctor suits me much better than I ever thought in my youth. And besides, Faith has taken on a central role in caring for the village. She worked very hard to hold the place together these past years and let's be honest, The Glen has always adored her." He says it with the obvious pride always evident when he speaks of his wife.

Still, I am not totally convinced, and Jem obviously doesn't miss that, for he quickly squeezes my shoulder. "Don't look like that! I know our old world is too small for you now, but I'm different. I think it will be… a comfort to me to return back home. Living in Ingleside again, seeing my children play in Rainbow Valley… maybe it's an attempt to keep hold of a lost world, but the thought of Ingleside one day not being home anymore pains me. That's why Faith and I will stay and keep our little world together and look after the people we care about. And the rest of you, wherever you end up, will always have a place to come back to."

It sounds almost solemn, the way he says it, and I swallow heavily. Still, the thought is somehow truly comforting. The world might be big, but it's calming to know that Jem will keep Ingleside for us.

"And apart from that," Jem adds and grimaces slightly, "I wouldn't want to come back only to rip Ian and Sara from their home. This'll be difficult enough for them already."

Now it's me reaching for his hand, still resting on my shoulder, and giving it a comforting squeeze. "Faith wrote that they both long for your letters," I remind him. "You aren't a stranger to them."

"No, maybe not," Jem agrees slowly. "But I also wasn't much of a father to them these past years. We still have to learn how to be a family – just like you and Ken and your child."

I sigh softly. "But at least you have a knack for being around children. Bruce positively idolised you back in the day. I, on the other hand… I know nothing about children and don't particularly like them either. I'm not even sure if I can be a… a _mother_. And that is still feels completely surreal isn't helping either," I admit. Because Ken might have succeeded in taking away some of my uncertainty, but it's been a week since then and I have had a lot of time to worry.

In the mirror that is the window pane, I can see Jem thoughtfully cock his head to the side and look at me. When I meet his eyes, I can see something almost speculative in their depth. "I have an idea," he announces, obviously pleased at his own perceived genius. "Go and lie down on that couch over there, will you?"

In answer, I snort in a decidedly un-ladylike manner. "I will not let you examine me," I inform him. "For one, I already had a very nice doctor on London do that. For another, it would be… _weird_." At the last word, I wrinkle my nose.

Jem laughs. "Sure, it would be supremely weird," he agrees easily. "But I'd still like to try something. Humour me?"

For a second, I consider refusing, but Jem's stubbornness matches my own and it doesn't seem to be worth the struggle. So, I sigh heavily, earning me another smile from Jem, before I walk over to the couch in another corner of the room. Jem follows, still laughing softly to himself, which is not exactly conducive to my mood.

"Alright, what do you want?" I ask, annoyed, after having sat down on the couch and pulled up my legs.

Jem, standing next me, raises a stethoscope, looking more pleased than the presentation of an ordinary stethoscope normally warrants. I just about stop myself from rolling my eyes. "Using a stethoscope above clothing produces side noises," I remind him.

"Which is why you're going to have to sit _very_ still to prevent any rustling. Or would you prefer to disrobe after all?" Jem immediately shoots back and this time, I don't suppress the eye-roll. I do, however, deign to unbutton my uniform jacket so that his strange plan isn't doomed from the start.

Jem places the stethoscope above my underclothing, sliding it over my stomach with a concentrated expression, and I have to say that it's all weird enough already. Several seconds pass and I just decide to put a stop to his little experiment, when Jem suddenly raises a finger to silence me.

"Here," he announces quietly and smiles. Then, holding the stethoscope head in place with one hand, he pulls out the ear pieces with the other and hands them to me. Still a little annoyed I reach for them and put them into my own ears. If I play along, it should be over sooner.

"Can you hear it?" asks Jem and at first, I want to deny it, want to say that I don't hear _anything_ but my own heartbeat but then… then there's suddenly something else. A second sound, quicker and more fragile, almost imperceptibly and yet, undoubtedly _there_.

Very still, I sit, not daring to move or even to breathe, and listen to the fluttering sound of the second heartbeat. _Thumbthumbthumbthumb_.

Finally, many moments later, I raise my head and look at Jem. I want to say something but when I open my mouth, I find that I have no words.

Jem, however, seems to understand anyway. "Still unreal?" he asks and even though he is serious, his eyes are smiling.

I swallow, but still words won't come. So, I shake my head very slightly and reach out my free hand to touch Jem's arm in gratitude, before pressing down the stethoscope again.

 _Thumbthumbthumb_ , goes the little heart.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Roses of Picardy' from 1916 (lyrics by Haydn Wood, music by Frederick Weatherly)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
No need to apologise! It's lovely to hear from you again. I enjoy your reviews a lot.  
Rilla and Ken definitely take a big step here in terms of couple dynamics. Rilla is all over the place, emotionally (_ _as she's wont to do, what with pregnancy hormones messing with everything)_ _and so she's actually subconsciously asking for conflicting reactions from Ken. On one hand, she wants to be reassured and somewhat protected. On the other hand, she expects him to back off the moment she tells him to. He does quite a good job of handling her moods though, so he certainly gets brownie points for that.  
Your take on Rilla and Persis, their differences and similarities, is spot-on. They can both be stubborn, but in different ways. And while they both value their independence, they also assert that differently. Persis's adventure wouldn't be for Rilla, nor could Persis happily settle into what will be Rilla's future life. That might be part of the reason why they work as friends though - their differences keep things interesting.  
_ _As for the baby's gender... what can I say? Sometimes, wishes do have a tendency to come true ;)._


	80. Though time may let us sometimes forget

_April 16_ _th_ _, 1919  
RMS Olympic, Atlantic Ocean_

 **Though time may let us sometimes forget**

"I heard someone say that they expect us to reach Halifax in five days," remarks Colette and leans against the railing by my side.

"It appears so," I confirm and give her a quick look before turning back to the endless blue of the Atlantic. We left Southampton yesterday and ever since we passed Ireland, there's been nothing in front of us but the sea.

At least there are no U-boats anymore. And at least I have Colette with me.

Whether it was pure coincidence that I ended up on the same ship as her or whether someone had a look at the units scheduled for _sailing 49_ and realised that I once served with one of them, I have no idea. Whatever the reason, when I went on board yesterday and was greeted by a cheerful "Îlliene!", I knew without turning around that, almost three years after my last time crossing the Atlantic, I would also spend this journey among friends.

"You have to come to my wedding," Colette now announces without further ado and it's immediately evident that this is neither an invitation nor a question. It's an order and not to follow it is not a viable option.

That I nod, however, is not really because of that. "Of course, I will," I promise, turning away from the sea towards her now.

"But you don't even know when and where it will take place!" she protests with a frown.

"Because it doesn't make a difference," I reply. "No matter when or where you are going to be married, I will be there. You were there for me as well, remember?"

Colette mulls that over for a moment, before nodding firmly. "True. And Matron let me feel her displeasure at me getting leave against her will for _weeks_ afterwards," she points out and pulls a frightful grimace that is undoubtedly meant for the absent matron.

"See? If you make such sacrifices for me, there's no question about me being there for you as well," I assure.

"But don't you still want to know when and where the wedding will be?" Colette asks, sounding so sceptical that I have to laugh.

"Sure," I nod.

"In May. In Montreal," is her answer.

And immediately I am reminded of Polly asking me to go see Betty's family in her stead, should I ever make it to Montreal. It doesn't look as if Polly will return to Canada in the next years and I suppose someone _has_ to do it and yet… I hoped this particular cup would pass me by. Not only because it's bound to be a sad meeting but because I feel as if it's not really my place. I only knew Betty for such a short while and gave less time to the friendship than she or it deserves. How am I to face her family, then?

But I promised Polly and you have to keep your promises. Somehow, I will honour this one as well. I don't know how, but somehow, I will have to. I owe it to them both, to Betty _and_ Polly.

"Rilla?" asks Colette, making me start.

She is eyeing me quizzically and I quickly shake my head. No sense in getting her down as well. "It's nothing. I just got lost in my thoughts there for a moment," I assure her.

Colette's features remain sceptical, but she nods slowly. To curb any further questions, I hurry to ask, "Why Montreal, anyway?"

Maurice hails from the Gaspé Peninsula and Colette grew up on the banks of the St Lawrence River, somewhere to the north of Quebec City, where she later went for her nursing training. As far as I know, neither of them has any direct ties to Montreal.

"Because that's where we're going to live," Colette explains readily. "My cousin's husband's sister works as a ticket inspector in Montreal and she got Maurice a job as tram driver. He's been back for a month and is currently trying to find a place for us to stay that is both affordable and has a roof not threatening to start leaking at the first sign of rain. I'll squeeze in a short visit at my aunt and uncle's place and as soon as I'm in Montreal, we'll get married."

"Tram driver?" I asks, only partly because I have no idea what to respond to their wish of an affordable and yet non-leaky place to stay.

Colette shrugs. "It's a job," she points out pragmatically. "Sure, he prefers automobiles to trams, but we can count ourselves lucky that he managed to get a job this quickly at all. He hopes to be transferred to the workshop where they service the trams in the long run. And the grand dream is to one day open his own garage and repair automobiles. _I_ don't think it very realistic, but he swears that the automobile will be the main form of transport in the future."

"And when automobiles are concerned, Maurice is the undisputed expert," I reply. Truth to be told, I have never given the matter much thought myself.

"Probably. He sure is fascinated enough by them," Colette retorts with a little eye-roll, making me smile.

In response, she also flashes an amused smile my way. "And I'll try and find work as a nurse somewhere," she adds. "The big hospitals are no more forthcoming about employing married nurses than the army is, but Montreal should be big enough for me to find suitable work as a private nurse. And who knows? With two wages _and_ the War Service Gratuity paid by the army, Maurice might even get his garage in the end."

"He'd love that, I'm sure. To spend the whole day patching up automobiles," I remark.

Colette laughs. "Sure. He is welcome to do his own washing though," she declares. "Oil stains are even harder to get out of clothing than blood is."

The trick with blood, of course, is to use cold water. However, I don't have any idea how to get oil stains out either.

"And you?" asks Colette, putting the question of stains to rest. "Toronto?"

I nod slowly. "Yes, Toronto. I've never been there, but Persis assures me that it's a lovely city. I guess I'll just have to take pot luck," I explain with a crooked little smile.

Colette immediately grows alert. "You could come to Montreal instead," she suggests eagerly. "You know Montreal, after all."

"I do," I concede. "But Ken's family is in Toronto and they have some kind of company there that is currently headed by his uncle but that he's expected to take over at some point. It makes sense for us to go to Toronto, I suppose, though I'd love to have you and Maurice close by, of course."

"How long does it take to get to Toronto from Montreal? Twelve hours by train?" she enquires with a frown.

"Something like that, I think," I confirm, not without some regret. In Toronto, I will have my sisters nearby and, at least for a while, Persis as well, but it would have been lovely to be able to see Colette more than a few times a year. This even more so because it looks like Polly has now permanently slipped into the role of pen pal.

Her sigh tells me that Colette feels quite the same way, but she squares her shoulders and visibly calls herself to order. "We'll find reasons for visiting each other then," she declares. "You'll come for my wedding and I'll visit in autumn to get to know your baby."

Ah.

"So, you noticed," I remark and try for a smile that comes out somewhat lopsided.

Colette shrugs, unmoved. "You're not doing a bad job of hiding it, but when you know what to look for, it's pretty obvious," she informs me.

She's probably right about that.

"And?" asks Colette, watching me intently from the side. "Are you happy?"

It might be considered irrational, but somehow, I'm incredibly grateful to her for not just expecting me to be over the moon on principle. "It's… quite a lot to get used to," I answer slowly.

"But?" prompts Colette and raises both eyebrows.

"But all things considered, I am looking forward to meeting it," I finish, surer now, and feel a smile rise within me as I remember a fragile little heartbeat.

At this, Colette nods, clearly satisfied. "Then I'm happy, too," she announces. "And I suppose goddamn Kenneth Ford is as well?" She wiggles her eyebrows and I have to laugh at the memory of how my husband acquired that particular nickname.

"He's pretty happy, yes," I confirm with a smile.

"Well, he better be," Colette replies. Then, craning her neck a little, "Where is he, by the way? I have hardly seen him at all since we boarded the ship."

I shrug. "Probably off somewhere with Matt Irving and the other officers," I explain. "They're still quite busy with all the paperwork."

Colette huffs and I have to quietly agree with her. I would love to be able to spend more time with Ken as well, now that providence or some benevolent higher power put us in the same ship. Still – five days and then a whole lifetime. I can get through five more days, especially because we at least have the _nights_ together.

As expected, it's quite late before I see Ken again. I am only able to wave at him and Matt during dinner, before Dr MacIver claims my presence at his table, and it takes some while before the good doctor allows me to leave again. By the time I reach our cabin, Ken is already there.

It is, that has to be said, a very nice cabin. The Olympic, sister ship to the unfortunate Titanic and Britannic, is in troop ship mode, but it's still unable to deny its first iteration as a luxury liner. Ken, as one of the highest-ranking officers on the ship, was allocated a roomy, quite posh cabin. My place would have been in a normal double cabin with another nurse, but even before we set sail yesterday, Ken organised my move into his cabin. As there are not many officers of his rank on the ship at all and because I was properly introduced to every last one of them, that didn't pose too much of a problem.

As I enter the cabin, only lit by a single lamp, I see Ken sitting at a desk in one corner, looking at something in deep concentration. Only when I walk over to him does he raise his head and smiles at me. "Hello my love," he greets. "How are you?"

I move to stand behind him, sliding both arms over his shoulders. "I'm well," I assure, while craning my neck a little to look past him at the desk. "What are you doing?"

Even as I speak, Ken's hands have started collecting the papers spread out in front of him. "Oh, this is nothing," he replies. "I only…"

Abruptly, he breaks off. His hands, too, suddenly still in their movements. In the light of the lamp, shadows pass over his face like thoughts. It takes several seconds, but then he seems to pull himself together. His hands reverse the earlier work, and spread out the papers on the table again.

"I was drawing," he explains. "Do you want to see it?" There's something almost reserved in his voice and his expression, and for a moment, I pause. But then I lean forward a little to see what's on that table.

These are, indeed, drawings. Some on heavy, cream drawing paper, others on mere paper scraps or on pages that have machine written army orders shining through from the other side. Regardless of their surface, however, all the drawings have some undeniable similarities. For one, there's the distinct simplicity of execution, just charcoal on paper. For another, there's an absolute attention to detail.

And yes, there are also the motives to tie them together. Every last one of the drawings spread out in front of me shows the truth of this war in a blunt way that makes me shiver.

A group of soldiers in a trench, crouched down against the rain. A grenade exploding in No Man's Land. Two men with gas masks, hardly looking human anymore. A plane flying too close to the ground. A broken body hanging on barbed wire. A destroyed village, almost not recognisable as such. Medics, carrying a wounded man on a stretcher. A lone tree rising in No Man's Land. A man stuck up to his hip in mud. A pair of horses struggling to pull a piece of artillery. Several dozen corpses laid out neatly in lines. A tank rolling forwards relentlessly. A cloud of gas hiding the horizon. A German soldier cowering in a shell hole. A single boot with foot and lower leg still inside it. Soldiers climbing from the trench, bayonets fixed and ready. A weather-beaten cross of wood partly submerged into the earth.

If Walter and his poems caught the comforting, honourable side of this war – or, better yet, of the _humans_ in this war –, these drawings speak a different language. They are relentless in how detailed they are and almost painful in how they keep the gaze fixed on the truth of war, even when it would have been easier to look away.

With the tip of a finger, I follow the contours that make up the face of a tired-looking private, hunkering down in a shallow dug-out. Beneath his steel helmet, he looks directly out of the picture, in a way that almost makes me believe he's right here with us – or we with him.

"I didn't know you could draw like this," I murmur, because for the moment, that seems to be the safest thing to say. Besides, I really didn't know. I've often seen him doodle little drawings into the margin of various papers in the past, but these drawings surpass those doodles by far.

"My mother is much better," answers Ken with a shrug. "She had lessons for many years, ever since my father discovered her talent shortly after their wedding. She paints beautiful pictures in oils and watercolours. In comparison to her works, these are just scrawls."

I know Leslie Ford's paintings. They hang in the House O' Dreams in Four Winds and in many a house belonging to a friendly soul besides. And even though these pictures are pretty to look at, all colourful and happy, they lack the raw honesty, the _vulnerability_ , of Ken's charcoal drawings.

"Still, I was lucky to inherit some of her talent," Ken continues. "Everyone always thinks I ought to be able to write because my father is a famed author, but Persis was always so much better at it than me. Words come easily to her. To me, on the other hand… I was always better at drawing, without ever reaching my mother's talent."

I could argue about that and I am considering doing just that, when I absent-mindedly slide the drawing of the private to one side and, in doing so, reveal another picture that makes me forget all my arguments. It is the detailed picture of a man in whose face there is a hole where there should be a nose. That I don't shrink away at the sight is only because I've seen my share of mutilated faces, some of them very real and unbearably close.

"When did you draw these?" I ask Ken, making a little motion that encompasses all drawings on the desk. The man without a nose silently looks up at me.

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "A lot of it while still at the front," he answers. "Most pictures are based on memories though, instead of being drawn from life. It's more… I draw the memories _out_ of me. When I am overcome by the thought of a particular situation that refuses to leave me alone, I draw that situation, and for whatever reason, it helps a little. As if the memory, put on paper, loses a little of its awfulness. They… they don't torture me as much anymore, the memories. Though these days, it's less conscious memories than nightmares that get me drawing."

"Nightmares?" I ask. It surprises me a little that he has nightmares at all. In the few nights we shared since our wedding, I woke him more than once with my own nightmares, but the opposite has never been true.

What I did notice last night, when I woke after midnight and long before dawn, was that he murmurs the names of his dead in his sleep. From the list of dead in his notebook that he forced himself to learn as some form of penance and that, apparently, follows him into his sleep. For even though he murmured the names so quiet that they were almost imperceptible, they were still unmistakable.

And that's why, for a moment, I consider mentioning it to Ken, but decide against it in the end. If he knows it, he's still powerless. If he doesn't know, maybe it's better that way. For what is his list of names but another form of my procession of dead, which doesn't keep me awake anymore but managed to find a way into my dreams instead?

"Of course, I have nightmares," answers Ken, voice composed. "I can hardly imagine anyone returning from this war without nightmares, and I'm no exception. It's just that during and after the nightmares I am… frozen. I suppose that's why you don't notice them. Even after I wake up, my body is completely rigid for a few seconds, sometimes even a minute or two. I couldn't move if I tried. When I can move again, I am usually awake enough to recognise the nightmare as such. And then, I draw it."

I shiver runs down my back as I imagine waking from a nightmare and finding myself unable to move. Because he might talk about it quite matter-of-factly, but I can't really see how it could possibly leave him this unmoved. Instinctively, I nestle closer to him and he reaches for my hand and holds it tight.

"You could wake me. If you want to," I suggest cautiously.

"I know," assures Ken. "But I don't really need that, to be honest. It's enough for me to wake up and have you there by my side. Nothing chases away the nightmares as reliably as the knowledge that we're safe and together."

I turn my head to look at him and, to my relief, see him smiling.

"But don't you ever dare draw me while I'm asleep!" I warn him, because let's be honest – could there be anything cheesier?

And even though I mean it as a joke, I can see the smile slip from Ken's face. Thoughtfulness takes its place and once more, he seems to need a few moments to come to a decision. Instead of saying anything though, he reaches for a folder, opens it and takes out a thin stack of paper.

Immediately, I recognise the drawings as showing me. But instead of being loving, softly drawn portraits, the kind of which might perhaps be expected, every drawing apparently pictures a moment that was painful for Ken and somehow connected to me.

The first drawing shows me dragging on a cigarette, behind me a wall of rain. The last drawing shows only my back, bent forward a little, the open dress with its many tiny buttons not doing a very good job of concealing the vertebrae protruding sharply under thinly-stretched skin. And in-between these two drawings there are others, each of them showing a different situation and yet, taken together, painting a kaleidoscope of pain.

"Call me old-fashioned but I always thought that people draw the situations that made them happy," I remark pensively as I look down at the pictures. There's not much happiness about them.

"But I don't _want_ to draw the happy situations out of myself," Ken answers slowly. "I keep these here and here." He raps his knuckles first against his head, then at his chest, where he obviously thinks his heart to be.

With a tiny smile, I take hold of his fist and move it downwards a little. "Here," I correct, letting the tips of my fingers drum against the back of his hand for a moment. Then I turn my eyes back again, surveying the spread-out drawings once more.

This is, I realise, his way of telling me. Months ago, I asked him why he doesn't speak about what he experienced and what he suffered through. He hasn't spoken much since then either, but these drawings and his decision of showing them to me, are his way of sharing his memories with me. And, as awful as they are to look at, I am glad he did.

I turn back towards him and kiss him gently. "Thank you for showing me," I remark quietly.

"Thank you for allowing me to show them to you," Ken replies calmly. "I didn't know if it was alright to burden you with these."

"It's not a burden!" I protest while keeping hold of his gaze with my own and hoping that he believes me.

Because it's the truth. It's not even the old saying of a burden shared being a burden halved. It's more… it's easier for me to shoulder _his_ burden than my own. And somehow, I have a feeling he feels quite the same way.

Ken surveys my face carefully and what he sees there seems to convince him, for a smile creeps onto his lips. "Good," he nods and kisses the tip of my nose.

"And you can really wake me if you want to," I persist. I hate the thought of him lying awake in the dark, these horrible sights in front of his eyes.

Another careful look, shorter this time, then another nod. "I will," Ken promises, and I have a feeling that he truly means it.

But before I get a chance to reply anything, he gives me a gentle nudge. "Come on, let's go to bed," he suggests.

"Don't you want to finish this?" I ask, pointing at the unfinished drawing of a twisted body. I'm not sure if it's supposed to get a head at all.

Thoughtfully, Ken raises the drawing, holds it against the light for a moment. Then he shakes his head. "Not tonight," he decides. "Let's sleep."

He lets go of the drawing. In a gentle movement, it flutters down onto the desk.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When you're away' from 1914 (lyrics by Victor Herbert, music by Henry M. Blossom)._


	81. A silver lining

_April 21_ _st_ _, 1919  
RMS Olympic, Atlantic Ocean_

 **A silver lining**

The night sky looks different when out on sea. Just as city lights hide the stars, the loneliness of the sea fully reveals them. Thousands upon thousands of stars, painted on the sky, until there's barely a speck of darkness left.

I lean a little closer to the window, letting my gaze travel over this night-time splendour, when I suddenly hear footsteps behind me. Only moments later Ken's arms close around me and with a sigh, I lean back into his embrace. "Everything alright with you?" he asks and presses a fleeting kiss to the back of my neck.

"Fine, fine," I assure and smile at his pale reflection in the window.

"What about our little bug?" he adds, his hands sliding downwards to cover my stomach, now unmissable beneath the thin nightdress, though the stiff layers of uniform just about manage to conceal it during daytime.

"Fine as well," I reply. "It doesn't seem to be able to sleep either."

Surprised, Ken raises his head. Our eyes meet in the makeshift mirror created by a window against a dark sky. "How do you know that?" he asks. "Can you…?" He breaks off and there's a silent wonder in his expression that makes me smile.

"Feel it?" I complete his question. "Yes, I think so. Just for the last few days. And it's still very faint. More of a fluttering than anything."

Looking over my shoulder, his gaze travels downwards. "Can I feel it, too?" he wonders, moving his hands lightly up and down.

"I don't think so, even I can only barely feel it. Give it a bit more time," I comfort him, moving my hands to lie over his. He nods, his expression losing none of its awe, and I resolve to find a stethoscope for him tomorrow.

"Come, let's go back to bed," I suggest, nodding towards the dark corner of the cabin where I know the bed to be. "Little bug and I are cold."

Ken doesn't have to be told twice and only seconds later, both the bug and I are safely ensconced in a cocoon created by two blankets and the arms of its father.

"Why did you wake up?" Ken asks and while he speaks, I can feel his breath brush lightly through my hair. "Was it a nightmare or…?" He leaves the question unfinished.

"No nightmare," I am quick to assure. "I was just… thinking."

A quiet, humming sound from Ken. Then, a second later, "What about?"

For a moment I want to brush it off, want to tell him that it's nothing, but the truth is, it _isn't_ nothing. And I promised not to lie to him, after all.

Still, it takes several more seconds until I have collected myself enough to answer. Ken remains still, waiting, with only his thumb absent-mindedly stroking my arm.

A deep breath. "I thought about something Dr MacIver said recently," I confess. "He… he mentioned that he thinks I'd make a decent surgeon."

To be more exact, he said I am "bloody talented". Though it's questionable if he would have said that, had he known that on my penultimate day in London, I was woken by the sound of the gardener sawing off a branch from a tree next to my window. The only silver lining in that situation was that I was alone in the room and no one saw me break down.

Still… I'd be lying if I claimed never to have thought about medical studies myself in all those years. Even more so, because Miss Inglish wrote to me some weeks ago, telling me that she'll attend medical school come autumn. For a moment, her letter made an otherwise abstract thought very palpable.

Cautiously, I peer at Ken. In the darkness, it's hard to read his face.

"But Dr MacIver is known for being having weird ideas. He's not to be taken too seriously. He's a genius, but also a bit batty," I add quickly, hoping to close down that particular topic.

Ken, however, seems to have other ideas. His eyes search out mine, thoughtful now, as he raises a hand and lets his fingers dance along my face. "Would you like to do it? Become a doctor?" he asks.

I let go of a breath, feeling a little frustrated. "It's hardly possible, is it?" I point out, lightly patting my stomach. "When the next school years starts, our little bug here will just be about to give its debut."

"That wasn't my question," Ken replies calmly. "I asked whether you'd like to do it."

"Medical school takes years," I remind him. "Most men would be glad to have their wives sitting at home instead of wasting time on their studies."

"That might be true," nods Ken. "And I suppose, two years ago I would have been of that opinion as well. But you're not going to be sitting at home either way, and what's more, I wouldn't want you to. You forget, my love, that I was allowed to watch you do your work."

He meets my confused frown with a smile. "In Arques, I had a lot of time to observe you around your patients. Not even when you cared for me, but when you took care of all the others. I don't need to be told how amazing you are at what you do," he explains.

I shrug, though it's no easy feat when lying down. "That was a nurse's work and I already am a nurse," I remark.

Ken nods slowly. "Point taken," he concedes. "But it was you who suggested the correct treatment for me and that wasn't nursing work anymore. And besides, I was there when you saved poor Davis's life. That was incredibly impressive."

I pull a face. "Maybe. But you also saw me basically break down afterwards," I remind him. "And when I assisted with another operation some weeks later, it wasn't any better. I wrote you about that, remember? We had to amputate a finger of the German boy with his maimed hand and to this day, I have no memory of what happened between the moment Dr Cormer applied the bone saw and the moment I came to my senses outside the building. It's a just a great black spot of nothingness. That's why it doesn't matter what Dr MacIver thinks – I won't ever become a surgeon."

"But maybe a normal doctor?" asks Ken.

Abruptly, I sit up. "Why are you so set on me studying medicine?" I want to know, not sounding half as calm as him.

"I'm not," he replies, very composed, as he sits up as well. "I just want you to know that you could. It might be unusual, and I know it wouldn't be easy, but it's not impossible. If you want it, we'll make it happen. If only because I don't ever want you to rue the day when Smith and Young appeared in your tent back in Aubigny."

I can't think of anything better he could have said to calm me. So, I reach out my hand and weave our fingers together. Then, taking a deep breath, I answer, "I appreciate it and I thank you. It's true that I thought about it. Who knows, maybe two years ago, I might have really given it a try. But now everything is different, and I just don't think it's worth the effort anymore."

"Medical studies, you mean?" Ken asks while squeezing my hand.

I nod. "Let's be honest, I've never been particularly academically gifted. That's part of why I didn't go to college. I am good at nursing because it's practical work. You learn things by doing them instead of just reading about it. The thought of spending years in an airless auditorium, cramming Latin vocabulary into my head, is an abhorrent one to me. Maybe I would somehow get through it if I really put my mind to it, but I wouldn't enjoy it even for a second. And that's a lot of years doing something you don't enjoy," I explain and manage a crooked smile.

Ken nods, thoughtful. "Yes, I understand that. What then? Do you want to go back to working as a nurse?" he wants to know.

I know that many of my former nursing colleagues will do just that. Certainly, Maud and Miller. Miss Talbot seems to have gotten hold of one of the rare nursing postings within the much-reduced permanent army. The others, Polly and Lucy and probably Bryony as well at some point, will move on to live the life of wife and mother. Even Colette's time as a nurse is likely limited.

"No, not really," I answer slowly. "The work gave me a lot and it fulfilled me in a way nothing did before. But it's hard work, with long days and long nights, even as a private nurse, and I just don't think it's what I want anymore. Besides…"

"Besides…?" Ken prompts gently as I break off. His thumb brushes over the back of my hand.

Quite automatically, I have to think back to what Tim wrote when he explained why he decided on travelling the world with Persis instead of going back to finish his own medical studies. It's something I, too, realised when yet another Serbian POW succumbed to the flu right beneath my hands and there was nothing, but _nothing_ , I could do for him

"Besides, I never want to see anybody die again," I answer quietly.

Ken lets go of a breath. "No. I can understand that," he replies, and I don't have to ask to know that his procession of dead is much longer than my own.

I squeeze his hand and he gives a lopsided smile. We will have this conversation as well, but it's a conversation for another day.

"If I'm being honest," I begin slowly, "And I know that it's going to sound both crazy and foolhardy, but… I've been thinking a lot about the amazing advances we've seen in the medical field in recent years and about how little of that actually reaches normal people. Think of the German boy. If his parents had brought him even a day earlier, we would have been able to help him so much better. That they didn't wasn't because they didn't care, but probably due to both lack of knowledge and lack of money."

I dare a cautious glance at Ken and he nods encouragingly, so I continue. "I've seen similar things in Montreal. Many people try home remedies first and sometimes that helps, but often enough, it just delays proper treatment and thus, worsens the condition. If they were just better informed, like knowing not to put poultices on open wounds, that would help a lot. Hygiene alone can sometimes work proper miracles. And in a perfect world, people would be able to see a doctor without having to worry about the cost."

"And you want to help them," Ken realises.

"These past years, so much was given for the war effort. I thought that maybe people are willing to donate for the returning soldiers and their families as well – and everyone else who needs it, really. Persis and Selina – if she wants to – surely know how to organise something to that effect. And with that money, we could really try to build something to teach people how to provide better medical care for their families. We could show them how to _prevent_ illnesses, instead of just treating them. And for those really needing treatment, we might be able to employ a nurse and perhaps even pay for a doctor a couple of hours a week to offer free consultations," I explain and can't help thinking of Maud. Maud would be perfect for something like this.

In truth, I have given this matter much more thought than Ken probably guesses. Colette, who was the first to get me to voice my idea some days ago, is quite taken with the thought. So much so that she dithers between attempts at getting me to set up something similar in Montreal and the resolve to quickly teach Maurice better English, so that they can come down to Toronto themselves. Knowing Colette, she's probably already working on the teaching material.

Even Dr MacIver, who wasn't very impressed when I told him that medical studies wouldn't be in my future, was mellowed by the knowledge that I don't intend to give up the medical side of my life entirely. He even offered to come to Toronto a few times a year and operate on people who are otherwise unable to afford such operations. His only prerequisite was that I have to assist him as a theatre nurse. I agreed, trusting in my little stomach bug to provide a good excuse to get me out of that particular endeavour.

Dr MacIver's offer also made me wonder who else I could ask to help. Lionel certainly will, and I'm quite confident about Dr Connelly as well, seeing as Kingston isn't far away. Dr Hunter even lives in Toronto as far as I know and depending on where he and his French girl settle down, I could even get in touch with Zachary again.

Still… these are all pipe dreams. Castles built into the air – pretty to look at, but without a fundament to ground them.

My eyes search Ken's and suddenly, I feel shy. "Or is this foolish? Completely unrealistic? Is it presumptuous to think that people would want me to explain health care to them?" I ask and feel my stomach jolt nervously.

Ken slowly shakes his head. "You having been an army nurse will certainly help. Most veterans will likely trust you because of that alone," he muses. "And in my experience, most people want to learn as long as you take them seriously and are serious about what you do. And you _are_."

I nod tentatively. "And what do _you_ think?" I ask.

His lips curve upwards in a smile as he raises a hand and gently tugs at the end of my braid. "I think it's a wonderful idea," he answers, "And I know you will do brilliantly."

And the moment he says it, I feel an invisible burden lift from my shoulders. I never needed his permission, but it feels good to have his support.

Even as I mirror his smile though, another thought pushed itself to the forefront of my mind, causing my smile to turn into a frown. "And what about you?" The question is past my lips before I can stop it.

"What _about_ me?" Ken asks, apparently honestly confused.

Slowly letting go of a breath, I order my thoughts. "You always speak of taking your place in your family's company as if it's a done deal. It just got me wondering if… if that's truly what _you_ want," I explain, wavering just the tiniest bit. Because he didn't hesitate to support my dreams and I am equally reluctant to leave his unfulfilled.

Ken's expression, however, clears at my words. "That's sweet of you, but I promise that this is really fine with me," he assures easily. "That might not be all that easy to believe, but I am good at organising things and it calms me to see everything go smoothly. Working for the company plays to my talents, even if it can be a rather… prosaic kind of work."

I must have continued to look sceptical, for he laughs and brushes a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

"Besides," he adds, "I thought about what you said about Nan and Selina and about how they employed war widows as seamstresses. I'd like to try something similar – provide employment for returning soldiers, if you will. Many men in my unit worry about their futures and I'd like to help them. I am still… responsible for them. At least I _feel_ like I am. And it's good fortune that I am in a position to truly be able to do something for them."

Through slightly narrowed eyes, I consider him in the dark of the cabin, but his expression is open and honest, without any trace of doubt.

Slowly, I nod. It's no surprise to me that he still feels responsible, even beyond our return to Canada. And yes, it might be prosaic work that awaits him, but then, isn't the same true for me as well?

Our world will always need dreamers and poets who can dream of a better world than the one we have. But to take a castle in the clouds and turn it into something solid, made of brick and mortar, you also need those who do the daily work. It might not always be romantic, but it's what both Ken and I am best at. We, too, have our hopes and dreams, but our story was never told in rhymes and verses.

I feel Ken's alert gaze upon me as he quietly asks, "All good?"

A beat before I nod, quickly and firmly. "All good," I confirm. For it truly is.

And yet, it's only Ken who slips back into sleep some minutes later. While his chest rises slowly and his heart beats lazily against my fingertips, I am fully awake. Eyes wide open, I look out into the darkness, as my thoughts slowly trawl in circles.

I can't even say how long I lie there, wide awake despite the early hour, but when the dawning morn begins to paint the cabin a kaleidoscope of greys, I finally give up on sleep. Very carefully, so as not to wake Ken, I climb from the bed and tiptoe over to the bathroom. I am quickly dressed in my uniform and on deck before the sun has risen above the horizon.

At this early hour, not many people are up yet with only some seamen and the odd soldier saluting me politely as I pass. It is, accordingly, still very quiet. There's only the ship's machines quietly droning in the background, the wind whistling past the deck and the sound of the waves smacking against the hull.

I lean against the railing, looking out at the sea and the dark horizon behind it. Behind me, in the east, the sun slowly climbs above the horizon, but I don't turn around. Too many years have I spent starring fearfully to the east. The west might yet be cast into darkness, but it's where our future lies.

It feels, still, not completely real. We make plans and try to put them in motion, so that they might become true, but part of me still waits for the day when I wake up and find that the past months were but a dream. For the day when I wake up and find that the war is back.

Maybe it just needs time. Time enough to realise that the past is truly gone and that the future can finally become the present.

Now that I have shared them with Ken, at least my plans slowly start to feel less like a wild idea and more like something that could really become true. And the thought is… hopeful. I spent so many years helping to mend beaten and broken bodies, and it was good and important work, but… but isn't is so much better to prevent people from getting ill or wounded in the first place than having to nurse them back to health afterwards?

It feels like meaningful work. Different from what I did until now, but no less important. Not the same dream I had years ago, but the right dream for _now_. Because I, too, am not the same person I was when I first crossed the Atlantic. And even though I sometime miss the lightness of the girl of yore, I wouldn't want to go back to being her again. The past years were too important for me, maybe _because_ they were sometimes sad and often hard. Quite as if we only learn to truly understand happiness after we've stood at the abyss. It's the kind of practical happiness I've come to appreciate. It's happiness of our own making and therefore, the only kind that can be relied upon.

The wind carries the sound of footsteps over to me and moments later, for the second time in this dwindling night, Ken's arms wrap around me. His lips brush my temple, and I lean back into his touch.

There's no need for words right now.

The first rays of sun slowly make their way over the ship, casting pale morning light above our heads and chasing away that night that still lingers in the west. These are the first moments of a new days and it feels right to greet it like this, in the arms of my husband and feeling the tiny fluttering movements of my child.

We will never forget what happened. No one will. It will probably never truly let us go, will stay with us in our dreams and our memories, in Ken's drawing and in the suffering I can't forget. In Jem's attempt to hang on to the old world and in that of Persis to find a home in a new one. In Shirley's desire for order and that of Carl to escape the truth. It won't ever let us go, not those of us who went and not those of them that stayed.

Still, we owe it to those who will never return that we take the chance we were given. I don't know if this world can truly be a perfect one, but I think that if we only manage to keep it peaceful, we will have achieved a lot. And until then, we will tackle life and try to master it as best as we can. That's what we owe to Jerry and to Walter and to all those others who will return no more. And somehow, we even owe it to ourselves.

"Look," I hear Ken's voice, quiet next to my ear, as he nods out at the dwindling darkness ahead.

At first, I don't see what he means. But when another ray of sunlight rises behind our heads and pierces the fog, I see it as well. A small sliver on the horizon, far away yet, but unmistakable. A sliver of land only just illuminated by the first light of day.

Home.

 **\- Fin. -**

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' from 1914 (lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello)._

* * *

 _Well, everyone. This is it. Almost ten months, eighty chapters (and a prologue), over 317.000 words and now, finally, we're done. It's been a real labour of love, but also quite the ride, which is in no small part thanks to you. I still remember how nervous I was before posting this story and it was your interest in it that, more than anything, kept me going.  
It makes me really happy to know that there are people out there who enjoyed reading this story, which is why I want to extend my gratitude to everyone who followed it. Even more than that though, I'd like to thank those who took the time to review, especially my Anne girls (you know who you are). I'd be writing even if no one was reading, but there's no doubt that reviews make a writer's world go round and this writer is no exception. I really can't thank you enough for your kindness and encouragement and general loveliness throughout!  
_ _Now, for anyone who's interested: while wrapping up this story, I already started working on my new project behind the scenes. I'm taking a well-earned week of vacation now, and there's still some work to be done after that, but I hope to be back with an entirely new story within the next few weeks. If you'd like to, we'll see each other then!  
\- kslchen_


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